


End of the earth

by Caivallon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ghost.<br/>A memory.<br/>A painful shadow of his past. </p><p>An unreality that is so terribly <i>real</i> that his insides collapse. Crumble down like walls - painful and cold like a knife <del>into his heart</del>.</p><p>“Hello, Killian.” </p><p>It cannot be true. </p><p>And yet it is true. </p><p>Sitting there on his porch at the end of the world, wrapped up in a sleek black down jacket, pale and hollow-eyed, is Peter. The boy from his neighbourhood, looking small and defiant and so very <i>triumphant</i> it makes him literally sick. Fills him with an icy cold that spreads through his insides, even deadlier than the cold that covers his skin. </p><p>(He can’t breathe.)</p><p>___<br/>Edit: accidentally posted the foreword instead of the summary, so here it is with the correct summary. ^.^</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I started this story almost exactly one year ago in the starbucks coffee shop near Kyoto main station and it took me almost one year to write this… during this time it became very dear to me and I’ve put a lot of thought into every detail.  
This was supposed to be a Christmas Story… but somehow (and I really don’t know how, I swear!) it turned into this huge not-very-christmassy thing. It’s the longest story I’ve ever written for this pairing and in english. It is already finished and will contain 4 or 5 chapters, I just have to do the edits of the later parts. 

I couldn’t have done it without the gently encouragement and eager support of my lovely friends [ **Tetila** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AwakeMySoul) and [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) ♥

Beta as always [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) who deserves million thanks for her patience and all the time she put into this to make it a better story. 

I hope you like it (comments and critics would be lovely).

 

[](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=opnrt5)

**End of the earth**

 

**Chapter 01**

Ice.  
Snow.  
Winter.

The stars nothing but needle sharp holes in the endless ink of the night sky, their light so cruel and clear - so very inhuman and infinite it leaves an aching longing in his chest. 

A cold so brutal and pure that it cuts through the tender skin of his lips and eyelids, stings with every shallow breath he takes and threatens to freeze his veins. ~~Freeze him from the inside~~. 

White clouds rise from his mouth to immediately settle upon his cheeks and lashes, the strands around his face, covering them with crystalline flowers. 

The frozen snow crunches underneath his feet: a harsh, destructive sound, and yet soft and calming - unique, quiet. A sound he loves very much - in fact, it has become his most favorite sound in the world since he has moved here. 

It’s the sound of loneliness. 

A condition he has also grown to love very much. 

Stopping by the lake, he takes a short moment to listen. To hold his breath and drink in the silence- devouring and overwhelming, comforting and familiar - before he turns around and considers the cruel path he has left behind in the otherwise flawless blanket of snow. 

It winds through the trees, around the frozen surface covering the pond, back to the river of ice, over the stony steps crossing it and then over the small hill - towards his dark and waiting cabin. 

The night is strangely illuminated due to the white ground, even though there are no northern lights. He likes it this way. (Sometimes the flickering inferno of emerald and turquoise just reminds him too much of his former life - of the distance between his past and his present.) 

He whistles. Listens for the indicating noise of big furry paws, the quick and heavy breathing of Pepper, waits for the short bark - happy - and then the muzzle against his thigh; wet and icy cold even through the denim of his jeans. 

“Okay, old lady, let’s go home.” He nods in the direction of said place, fingertips tingling although he has kept them inside the pockets of his jacket the whole time. “We have to make a fire and get your stupid ears dry and warm.” 

Pepper is obviously pleased about his words, but stays at his side, struggling clumsily through the deep snow, her huge ears clotted with white while he walks ahead, whistling a second time, louder than before and more vigorous. 

The sound cuts through the silence of darkness, the lonesomeness of the forest - sharp and clear (a spear in his acoustic duct) and then almost ghostlike and soundless a huge shape appears in front of him, tail wagging when he approaches and pats the black fur. 

They round the lake completely until they come across their previously made tracks and follow them towards his small blockhouse; Pepper close to him, Salt always ahead, impatient and eager to get home. 

When he spots the light on the patio he frowns in annoyance at his forgetfulness. It’s only when he notices Salt’s strained posture, the short growl escaping his throat, that he realizes he’s got a visitor, that there’s someone waiting for him. Someone who knows his hiding place for the lighter and the lamp. 

Maybe it’s just Georgia feeling a bit lonely this evening - yet he knows it’s too early considering her usual working times and he saw Brigitte only an hour ago. He doesn’t have many other visitors besides them, especially not visitors who come without a car, since there is no car in the driveway besides his own pickup. Pine Creek is over ten miles away.

So he quickens his steps, ignores his increasing heartbeat and orders Salt with a short command to stay put. Grabbing the leather collar, he can feel the pent up tension in the strong muscles, the trembling in the animal's body, the vibration of the threatening sounds in the ribcage beneath his hands. 

He contemplates sending a text to Creg, but instead he closes his fingers around the pocket knife in his pocket, the only thing passing for a weapon he currently has with him. Most likely it’s harmless, someone with car problems asking for help or maybe Georgia after all, maybe she found a lift to get here. 

But there’s this sick and sinister feeling in his stomach - a turmoil with the taste of fate. A severe heaviness that leaves him breathless while he approaches the cabin from the backside, Salt still restrained with his hand at the collar, Pepper tagging along - silent because she’s the world's most well behaved dog ever (or probably more because she’s actually too old to care about possible dangers waiting for him on his own patio). 

Whoever it is, he has to be aware that he’s no longer alone, must have heard them: their scrunching steps in the crusted snow, the quite loud and excited breathing of the dogs, the muffled jangle of their dog tags. But this is his house, his property - his _home_ \- he refuses to sneak around here. 

So he steps around the corner into the warm yellow light of the petroleum lamp. 

And freezes. 

A ghost.  
A memory.  
A painful shadow of his past. 

An unreality that is so terribly _real_ that his insides collapse. Crumble down like walls - painful and cold like a knife ~~into his heart~~.

“Hello, Killian.” 

It cannot be true. 

And yet it is true. 

Sitting there on his porch at the end of the world, wrapped up in a sleek black down jacket, pale and hollow-eyed, is Peter. The boy from his neighbourhood, looking small and defiant and so very _triumphant_ it makes him literally sick. Fills him with an icy cold that spreads through his insides, even deadlier than the cold that covers his skin. 

(He can’t breathe.) 

His past. Here. With bluish lips, perfect smile and shivering limbs. Vulnerable. Still a boy, still devious, still dangerous. 

(He wants to throw up.)

His past and all his terrible faults and mistakes. Clad in fashionable tight jeans (irresponsible) and chucks (even more irresponsible), hair shorter than before, features sharper. _More cruel_. 

(He wants to turn around and leave.) 

“Hello Peter.” 

But instead he verges on and covers the small distance, patting Salt and whispering soothing words while he climbs the wooden stairs and steps fully into the cone of light. He fixes his gaze on the boy: he can see the realization, the astonishment and something like greed and hunger quickly replaced by hurt quickly replaced by stony control and confidence. 

While he cleans his shoes of snow Killian allows his dogs to take in Peter’s smell to make sure they associate it with someone who is welcome here even though he isn’t; he’s an intruder, an unwanted and unwelcome memory. 

“Considering how you always disregarded my wish for solitude and reclusiveness I guess you want to come in?” 

Finally letting go of Salt’s collar, who immediately circles Peter and licks over his alarmingly whitish fingertips, Killian unlocks the door, jerking and lifting at the same time since it’s distorted from the extreme cold. 

“I couldn’t find the hiding place of your spare key,” he informs him. 

“Well… That’s probably because I don’t want anyone to _find_ it.”

Opening the door to let the boy in, he kneels down to comb clots of frozen snow out of Pepper’s fur, giving her a quick scrub before she’s allowed to enter. He repeats the procedure with Salt, who lacks Pepper’s calmer nature and patience which makes it more clumsy and difficult. All the while he can feel the weight of green eyes upon him- yet when he stands up again and steps into the small hallway Peter is already busy with fondling Pepper’s wet ears, smiling when she brushes her cold nose against his palms. 

“Take your shoes off in the hallway. I have to light a fire first, but it’ll be warm soon.” 

It’s easier to continue with his daily routine, to shove Peter’s existence as far away as possible. To shed the boots and cross the startlingly cold parquet towards the stove, to wake the dark orange of the embers anew, to coax them to life again with shreds of paper and igniter, to pile small pieces of wood onto the tenderly lapping flames, only stopping when the bright yellow blooms. 

“Come here.” His voice is hoarse, dry from the cold, from the amount of emotions. 

(Everything is so very wrong.) 

Peter shouldn’t be _here_. 

He can hear steps behind him, very light and very soft, the shifting of clothes. But when he gets up and turns around he is still shocked that Peter is suddenly so close; he has to swallow ~~every insecurity~~ every hesitation and look at him.

Close enough to see every detail in the flickering warm light of the fire and the single lamp he carries with him. 

The usual lucid eyes are dark, the strands of hair are shorter; dull and dead. Lips dry and chapped in a way that looks painful almost. He’s pale, the former so familiar tan is completely gone. There are shadows under his eyes, a cruel sneer in the corner of his mouth that wasn’t there before and for which Killian can not help feeling guilty for. 

(He still remembers the smile - just a flicker, short and beautiful.) 

Peter looks tired (so tired), sad and hurt and furious and delighted - as if the exhaustion of the journey has abraded all protective layers of his skin. 

So he concentrates on the pasty spot of the boy’s nose, the even paler and swelling patches on his cheeks, the traitorous first signs of frostbite. 

“How long have you been outside?” 

“Don’t know… I had a lift, around an hour maybe.”

“One hour too long in clothes like this.” 

His voice is angry; he’s angry because he knows Peter is manipulating him and still he’s worried. “Get out of that coat and change into something fresh, I’ll start the generator so you can take a hot shower. Look after the fire.” 

When Killian returns ten minutes later, loaded with a huge basket of wood, the temperature difference to outside almost makes him sweat, even though it’s probably just fifty degrees. Peter is sitting beside the oven, snuggled into his thick navy parka, feet drawn under his body, Pepper in his lap. They both meet his gaze: the cocker crossbreed guilty and sheepish, quickly lowering her head again, hiding it in the crook of his arm while Peter’s stare doesn’t even falter one second; relentless and provoking, waiting patiently. 

Shaking his head, Killian lets it drop, walks over to the kitchen counter and fills the water kettle from the huge tank beneath the sink. 

“Coffee or tea? I only have Darjeeling,” Biting his lips, he tries to sound as unfriendly as possible. His thoughts are nothing but a turmoil of questions and accusations and concerns, yet at the same time his mind is completely empty of things to say. Unable to force his emotions into words. 

Therefore he just walks over to the small couch and sits down onto the armrest, leaning over and inspecting Pepper’s ears.

“I toweled her off, she’s fine.” 

Killian draws back and sits upright in one fluent motion - away from Peter’s suffocating presence - the terrible feeling of fate. 

The silence between them is ~~horrible~~ thick and heavy with tension and secrets and memories. 

“Why?”

(There are no more words he can get out - there are no other words needed.)

“Because of _you_.” 

Of course. 

“What do you want?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re crazy and reckless, unforgiving and cruel. And I think you’re here to make me pay.”

Peter doesn’t even blink. He just looks at him, hands still buried in the dog’s fur but without paying attention to it anymore. 

“You left me. You disappeared without saying a word. Do you really think I would let something like this pass?” A short laugh.

(He almost missed it.)

“No.” Getting up, Killian walks over to the kitchen counter and switches the kettle off. The rich scent of coffee overflows his senses and clears his head. But he can still feel the heavy weight of Peter’s presence like a shadow behind his back as he adds milk and the smallest hint of sugar. “But I hoped you would forget about it. That you would move on like every other boy at your age.” 

“I am not like everyone else. You should have known that, too.”

When he offers Peter the mug, Killian discovers surprise in the pale and tired features. 

“You haven’t forgotten?” 

‘ _No_.’

The thought of taking a seat on the couch, opposite to Peter, settling down and getting comfortable during this conversation… it makes his fingers twitch, his skin itch as if it’s too small to contain all this grave emptiness inside him. Instead he leans against the small dining table at a safe distance from the boy and crosses his arms in front of his chest. When Salt leaves his usual spot on the rugged blanket in the corner to pad over and crush at his feet, he smiles shortly before he looks up again - torn between amusement and shock considering this bizarre ploy of irreality. 

“So… tell me. What are you going to do? How do you want to make me pay?” 

Peter takes a small tentative sip from his mug, licking his lips ~~because Killian really hasn’t forgotten, still knows exactly the amount of milk and sugar Peter prefers~~. 

“You ran away from me… you put five thousand miles between _us_. You’re hiding yourself at the end of the earth,” he raises his hand, preventing any kind of protest. “And yet I’m _here_. I found you.” 

Killian should object, he should smirk and shake his head in the same amused disbelief he felt just seconds ago and so desperately wants to feel again. But he’s not a liar. (Or at least he was never good at lying to this boy.) So he remains silent, holding Peter’s gaze - not because he doesn’t want to give way, only because looking away is not an option. 

He’s _here_. 

He has found him, he’s here after all this time and he’s still the same. He’s here and he’s so different from the boy he left behind: like someone ripped away his skin and put it over a cold porcelain statue - a statue that has been broken and put together masterfully, the cracks and fissures barely visible from afar, but Killian can see them nevertheless. Like someone has scratched out his insides and filled the empty shell with someone else. 

The thought and the image suffuses him with such an unease that he has to grab the back of the chair next to him. 

“Yes, you’re here, but you’re leaving tomorrow.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“I don’t care what you think, you can’t stay.” 

Peter raises an eyebrow and sits up, body obviously more tense. Setting the mug down onto the small coffee table, he grabs the armrest.

“I traveled the whole continent for you.” 

“I didn’t ask you to. You can stay tonight, but tomorrow I’ll take you back to Pine Creek. There’s a bus to the city and the airfield every morning.” 

“I am not going back.” The fingers are clawing into the cushion now; knuckles white. His voice is tight with repressed anger. Pepper raises her head, tired but alert.

“Fine… do what you want, but not here. I don’t want you _here_.” 

There’s hurt, suddenly. So much hurt that he can feel it - like a fist into his stomach, like a stab - it makes him sick. 

And then hate, just as sudden. So much hate that he can feel it crawling down his spine, a coldness creeping through his body, more freezing than the terrific frost outside. 

(But everything is better than that _hurt_.) 

Gently shoving Pepper aside, Peter gets up. He’s still wearing his thin inappropriate clothing, still looks chilly when he walks over the few steps until he’s directly in front of Killian.

“You can’t throw me out and you won’t. You couldn’t do it back then and you can’t do it now.” He’s still radiating that _cold_ \- sending goosebumps over his skin even before they are touching ~~for the first time since forever~~. “You know that, Killian.” 

Fingertips linger softly on the back of his hands, winding themselves around his wrists, loose but suffocating. They slip underneath his sleeves and brush over the smooth side of his lower arms, seeking warmth. 

“Those were mistakes. I was weak.”

“You were _happy_.” Peter smells crisp, of skin and exhaust gases, of lip balm and the long hours of traveling. “I made you forget. _I made you happy_.” 

“Doesn’t change the fact that it was a mistake.” The words on his tongue are dry and hard to get out. “And that’s the reason you have to go. My life was nothing but mistakes. I can’t bear that anymore.” 

“Are you calling me a mistake?” With one small step the boy stands close enough to touch, to feel. His voice is still calm, distant and neutral - but Killian can feel the emotions he’s suppressing. It shouldn’t increase his heartbeat, it shouldn’t make him yearn to lean closer and feel the strange familiarity of bones and skin against his own. 

“No,” he whispers, “You weren’t. But I can’t ruin your life like this.”

Salt jumps and gives them both a startled look (but neither of them really notices) when Peter jerks away abruptly and ends their delicate contact, rips his hands out of the warm sleeves of Killian’s jersey as if he has burned them. Confused and upset ~~and conciliating~~ Killian tries to get a hold of him, to capture the slender wrists and brush his thumbs over the throbbing pulse, but Peter shakes him off, so angry that for one short and relieving moment Killian thinks he might turn around and storm off, run away from him and never come back. 

(But this is Peter, not him.) 

“Don’t even pretend you’re like this! Don’t pretend you’re doing this for me!” He hisses, even paler than before. “You’re not that good! You’re as selfish and sick as everybody else. You fucked me because you wanted it, you loved it! You’re not getting rid of me under the pretense of doing it because you care about me! Because that’s a lie!” 

The words wash over him, raining down like needles, stinging deep, drilling tiny holes into his skin. Time is stretched into eternity and he knows he can’t escape.

“You’re not getting rid of me.” Peter reiterates. “You know you can’t. And you don’t want to. Keep lying to yourself over and over, keep pushing me away… I don’t care. But contrary to you I won’t hesitate to do everything necessary to stay with you.”

And again he smiles. And again it is so cruel and calculating and so very wrong that Killian wants to throw up. It is the shadow of the smiles he was once so used to, the tiny flicker, the left corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other one - sweet and youthfully honest. 

But it’s gone. And he’s afraid it won’t come back. 

~~He’s afraid it is his fault~~. 

“What are you talking about?”

Peter meets his eyes, the very epitome of arrogance and control; his tiredness and brokenness adding to the menace in his triumphant voice.

“You know exactly what I mean. I was underage back then. I’m sure many people would be quite interested in that fact.”

“That’s blackmail.” 

“That’s me adopting other measures.” He tilts his head to the side, playful and pleased. Killian has never hated him like this before. 

“You want me to go to prison because I left you?” He crosses his arms again, carefully adds amusement and incredulity to his tone; but every movement is slow, feels shaky, his body is so heavy that it takes effort to speak, to think, to breath. 

“No, Killian, I don’t want you to go to prison. But I’d do anything…” He doesn’t finish, it’s not necessary. “You should know that by now.” 

“Maybe I hoped you still have some sense of moral in you.” 

“No… not anymore, Killian. Thanks to you.”

It’s this last sentence - muttered again in the same flat voice like long ago. He still knows it too well. It’s the one Peter has always used to hide his emotions, the sheer evidence that he has them.

It hurts worse than all the arrogance and atrocity and hate before. Killian flinches back - startled and sick as the boy watches. The same green relentless stare like long ago. He still knows it too well. 

(Because he has dreamed about it countless times. Because he couldn’t force himself to forget it.) 

And then he turns around and leaves, grabbing just his parka on the way out. For the ~~second~~ first time since he’s met Peter, Killian surrenders. 

It’s far too cold to stay outside for longer than a smoke without a scarf or gloves and going back into the house is not an option, so he heads immediately for his pick-up, cursing when he has to tear the icebound door open before he can climb in. Hastily, he locks the door, almost expecting Peter to have come after him, but the patio is empty, the front door still closed. 

His heart leaps in relief, beating hard against his ribcage and his whole body feels raw, wounded and open. The bitterness on his tongue is black like coffee and memories from the past. Leaning his pained, throbbing head against the steering wheel, he tries to take in hasty gasps of air, crisp and clear, dry from iciness, to fill his lungs and get Peter out of his system.

Tries to tell himself that this time it will work. ~~Even though he knows it won’t~~. 

___

 

When he finally enters his house again it’s completely dark inside - all the lights were switched out half an hour ago. His fingers are red and aching with cold, barely able to turn the doorknob. His retinas burn from tiredness, from rubbing the heels of his hands over them steadily to keep himself awake. 

It’s long after midnight and he’s been awake for almost 24 hours. Weary and dreary not only because of his sleep deprivation, more from the constant fight against the storm of emotions and the dangerous greedy hands of the frigid temperatures. 

Shedding his boots in the small hallway and stepping into the living area, he’s relieved to find that Peter has looked after the fire and there are still glowing embers in the stove. Salt lifts his head and gives him a short greeting wag with his tail when he walks over to the old couch and sits down, feeling heavy and so tired suddenly that he barely manages to pull off the coat and cover himself with blankets. 

He did expect Peter to sleep in his bed upstairs in the small attic bedroom, but he also expected to be more annoyed and aggravated about it. Yet right now all he can think about is his relief of the fact that he doesn’t have to see him again tonight, that he can lay down in his living room and escape into a (hopefully) dreamless sleep and (hopefully) never wake up again. 

The blanket smells faintly of grass and rain and smooth skin sliding over his own - smells familiar and warm, of home and comfort… But he’s too tired to get up and get another one from the wardrobe upstairs. So he wraps it around himself and wishes that this scent won’t be the last thing (everything) he remembers before he falling asleep. 

Peter.  
Upstairs.  
_Here_. 

~~A ghost.~~  
A memory.  
The most ~~beautiful~~ painful shadow of his past. 

 

___

_The boy was wet like a drowned cat when he climbed into the car, and maybe in a former and different life he would’ve cared about the old yet remarkably well-looking leather on the passenger seat, but now he just noticed it and shrugged._

_“I could’ve walked, you know.” Green eyes, dark lashes with raindrops clinging to them - staring at him, while long fingers grasped for the seat belt, jeans-clad legs stretched out in the footwell._

_“It’s pouring down.”_

_“Just a nice, warm summer rain,” Peter blinked; the glistening pearls of water dripped down onto his cheeks, slipped into the corner of his mouth._

_“You’re already completely soaked from the hundred meters since the mall,” Killian raised his eyebrows incredulously as he waited for a gap in the late afternoon traffic._

_“I don’t care. I like the rain,” A tongue darted out to lick the droplets away. “It tastes of grass and the sharp copper of electricity - soothing and dangerous.”_

_He almost laughed, but it got caught in his throat - the comparison made his insides clench; striking a string of nerves, and suddenly he felt empty, raw like an open wound, burning with pain. So he didn’t laugh. Didn’t say anything. Instead he switched the windscreen wipers to a faster rhythm and merged into the stream of homebound rush hour cars._

_The rain was fast and heavy, the drops pounding a loud tattoo on the windows, making it very difficult to see more than the tail lights of the car in front of him; the thundering noise almost drowned out the radio._

_Peter hummed quietly along with the song they were playing - an old song with a catching guitar intro and an even more unforgettable violin culmination (Killian loved it, loved the chilling and calming despair of it) - fingers drumming the same beat as the raindrops upon his knee. It looked bony under the wet fabric of the the dark jeans, but bony in a way everything about the boy was bony; gangly and lanky - like he had grown too fast and too tall for the rest of his body to adjust, giving him an almost fragile and breakable structure - birdlike with all his fast, restless movements. Some maybe would have taken this for nervousness or awkwardness; yet it didn’t fit with the intent look in his eyes that never hesitated to meet his own, even searched for contact whenever Killian couldn’t take his gaze from the road. Confidently studying him like he was the most interesting thing in the world. Daring him, challenging him to say something, to break the lingering, thundering silence, the tension between them._

_(And he did. He broke the deafening and tingling silence. It felt like losing and winning at the same time.)_

_“Shouldn’t you be in school right now?”_

_“It’s almost July. There’s no school anymore.”_

_Of course._ He should’ve known _. So he nodded, his throat still too try to answer._

_“Wasn’t your fiancee a teacher?”_

_‘Yes,’ he wanted to say but the word only came out as a hoarse whisper._

_“Sorry… that was rude. I didn’t want to trigger bad memories.”_

_Killian didn’t think the boy cared at all; the voice was flat, lightly fluting (birdlike) at the end of the sentence - a kind of question or a song._

_“It’s okay.”_

_Yet it wasn’t. Or rather it wasn’t okay that it was indeed okay. It should bother him… should horrify him. But right in this moment, it was okay. Not painful, not heartbreaking - just okay._

_“So… then you can resume your guitar lessons with Felix?”_

_The green eyes searched for his own; he could feel them, but he fixed his gaze onto the road, had to focus on the road ahead; partly because he didn’t want to meet them again (as if they could see his insides, could take something away from him) partly because the rain had become even more heavy and it was hard to control the car due to the amount of water on the street._

_“Yes… I suppose. But I’m too busy at the moment.”_

_A blatant lie and Peter’s short chuckle proved he knew that too._

_“It’s a pity… I like watching your fingers when you play.”_

_(There it was again. A startle in his heart beat, that he ~~denied~~ missed earlier when the boy’s pale stare had first darted over him.) _

_“Why don’t you take lessons for yourself?” His mouth was dry suddenly, his voice ~~broken~~ raspy while he quickly watched the reaction from the corner of his eyes before turning left and leaving the main road, slowing his speed even further. _

_The slight shake of the light brown head, incredulous, the smallest and softest smile, lenient and patient almost, the caressing stare over his hand on the gear shift, open and self-explanatory._

_“Because I don’t want to learn it, I just want to watch you.” The tone was still flat, innocent, even when the finally raised eyebrow spoke of challenge, of flirting. When Peter’s left knee brushed swiftly against that hand._

_Killian laughed (hiding his surprise), amused by this boy, who obviously wanted to play a strange and cruel game with him - he was sure of that. (Even though he didn’t know why.)_

_So he ignored the teasing, the touching while he let his car crawl slowly past the huge and elegant houses, past white fences and perfectly mown lawns and well-trimmed roses._

_“Here we are,” He stopped the car in front of Peter’s house. But when he turned towards the boy he made no move to get out of the car, didn’t even open his seatbelt, just licked his lips - already shiny and temptingly pink - and kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on the lonely street, the disturbingly pristine neighbourhood._

_~~It was the first time he didn’t look at Killian and he felt an exciting thrill because of that~~. _

_“So let me clarify.“ The fingers playing with the seatbelt trembled (or maybe that was just Killian’s imagination), “... the reason I accompanied Felix to his lessons all those times wasn’t because I am interested in_ him _.”_

_The way Peter’s eyes still couldn’t meet his. The way he appeared so sheepish and sweet now, belying all those moments before._

_Killian almost believed him. ~~Almost~~. _

_The silence between them was deafening; every second weighed so heavily upon his shoulders that he could not even move. His chest was tight with wrongness and affection for the abrupt insecurity of the boy ~~and with the even more frightening verdict that he was thrilled by this confession~~. _

_He remembered him. Remembered the first time he had met him: Smaller still, shorter hair, softer features and a happier glow whenever he had thought no one was watching him. Over half a year ago - sitting with Felix and the Darling’s girl, playing chess, spiking their fruit punch, laughing and ignoring the adults as if paying attention would turn them also into one. Yellow candles lights and mellow christmas tunes… a lifetime ago._

_They were both no longer the same person._

_And the boy next to him was just the distant ghost of the boy he once had met._

_Because when Peter raised his head again, there was no trace of shyness or youthfulness - he was sincere and determined. Not one flicker of doubt or childishness anymore._

_“Perhaps you’re right…” He licked his lips again, eyelids fluttering as if he enjoyed the taste he found on them. “Perhaps I should take lessons with you.”_

_Killian tried to hide his confusion, the way he wanted to look away from the boy but_ couldn’t _._

_“That’s not… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”_

_Peter cocked his head, hesitating and doubtful, releasing a small chuckle, amused, intrigued, Then a long and lasting gaze, heavier than the rain on the car’s roof - it made his heart ache under the pressure and the piercing weight of it._

_The feeling - the grave feeling - that he should get away from him and never talk to him again was overwhelming. But he couldn’t, and he didn’t want to._

_So he just watched while Peter first opened his safety belt and then the door (the increasing noise of thunder and gurgling water in the drain). He watched as Peter closed the door and walked away - slow and bored, like the tempest didn’t bother him at all. Lanky and elegant at the same time, a slight sway of bony hips, as if he still wasn’t used to this new body. White shirt drenched and see through, clinging to his shoulders and spine._

_He never turned around. Never looked again at Killian. As if he already knew Killian would watch him until he disappeared into the dark and silent house._

_____

_**End Chapter 01** _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody  
> sorry for the delay, but real life (college and work) happened… I hope I can update the next chapter sooner.  
> Beta was still my lovely [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou).  
>  Thank you so much for your kind comments and kudos! They all made my day ♥ 
> 
> There’s a [ **tag** ](http://seawaterinmyveins.tumblr.com/tagged/scratch-your-name-into-my-soul%3A-extras) on my tumblr, with pictures, poetry and music that inspired or reminded me of this story. 
> 
> I hope you like that part as much as the first part.

**End of the earth**

 

**Chapter 02**

The next morning comes with dark shades of green and orange and pink mixing with various hues of dusky blue and nighttime navy, with aching joints from not only sleeping on the too narrow and too soft cushions but also from the biting cold in his cabin, with white mists of breath that rise when he yawns. His fingers tentatively reach out to brush over the velvety smoothness of Salt’s fur, who lies with the upper half of his huge body draped over his thighs, head pressed against Killian’s stomach, lower half still on the wooden floor because he knows perfectly well he’s not allowed on the couch. 

His facial muscles and skin ache when he smiles - the cold makes it difficult, makes his reactions slow and strenuous. 

Reaching for his mobile on the table is a tricky act of balance and expertise because his numb fingertips refuse to work properly. 

“It’s half past 11.” 

And suddenly Killian is wide awake, every trace of laziness gone. 

Peter’s presence is again like a knife into his brain; shining and deadly, banishing almost every sensation of peace and contentment from his mind, alerting his senses like nothing else, forcing his heart to beat faster as he slowly turns his head towards the other small lounge chair closer to the now cold stove.

Buried underneath his duvet and wearing his old Cornell hoodie (Killian didn’t even know Peter had sneaked it from his wardrobe, but the sight is like rubbing over a sore spot; painful but so addictive. Bringing forth memories of whitewashed afternoon waves, chill evening winds and bare feet dragging sand over the deck of a beach house in the morning. Salty kisses and soapy skin and the sound of seagulls.), Peter looks better rested and health: his skin is still pale, but the eyes are bright, lips full and less chapped. The shadows and lines in his face are softer, the smile more gentle and affectionate. 

(He looks normal - like a normal eighteen year old teenager, careless and relaxed.)

“I made coffee.” Without taking his gaze from him, Peter shifts and leans closer, a mug in his hands. “And breakfast, since you apparently can’t feed yourself.” 

The floorboards are icy even through the layer of cotton wool under Killian’s feet- he almost hisses when the freezing air hits the small stripe of bare skin on his lower back between his shirt and his jeans. There’s no need to check the weather glass - it can’t be more than twenty degrees inside the cabin, not with the fire gone out in the very early morning. 

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner? I wasn’t kidding about frostbite yesterday.” He doesn’t want to get angry- it’s not _his_ fault. 

(Peter shouldn’t even be _here_.)

“You looked like you needed some sleep.” A short shrug. “And I’ve missed watching you, seeing you peaceful like this.” 

Without a word, Killian slides into his coat and leaves to gather firewood from the small shack. It’s the last break before he has to face this new reality of Peter in his life - this shadow of disgrace and delivery. It’s the last time he can breathe freely before Peter will take away his oxygen. The last heartbeat without the heavy weight of future bearing down on his shoulders. 

So he inhales deeply - breathes in the freezing knives of winter, the sharp whiteness of snow, the pale and opalesque twilight of the longest night ever. 

(The peace and quiet he has found here - the silent happiness.) 

Peter is moving around the kitchen table, dishing up bread and smoked salmon, scrambled eggs and his last remains of cheese. 

“The milk is frozen,” He explains when Killian finally sits down after making a fire and washing the last traces of sleepiness from his face with shockingly chill water.

The sounds of crackling flames and subdued footsteps is familiar and new at the same time. The scent of food and coffee - nothing he is not acquainted with, but it’s different than all those times Georgia has been here. 

~~Because she has never been home~~. 

All her sounds and scents: not wrong, but also not right. 

~~Because he has never cared about her the way he cares about this boy~~. 

They sip black coffee, cooled down now, no longer steaming, but it’s fresh and bitter - the familiarity of this situation makes him nervous totally aware of everything around him. Every motion, every expression on Peter’s face, every word buried under this silence. 

It’s not uncomfortable (far from that, but he wishes it would be). 

“Do you remember the first time we had breakfast like this?"

‘ _Of course_.’

Peter doesn’t need an answer. Doesn’t need encouragement. 

“I remember it - bright as daylight. Remember almost every second of those hours. What we had for breakfast…what we talked about…what you wore… Grey sweatpants and a navy shirt - do you know I swiped it from your closet too?” 

‘ _No_.’

“The air smelled of summer and you tasted of coffee and something else…guilt, maybe, or curiosity. But definitely happiness.”

Peter finishes applying butter to a slice of toasted bread, offering it to him after topping it with the smoked fish. The expression on his face is smug yet also content, eyes never leaving Killian: his hands, his lips, his reaction. (He feels naked, observed, dissected: he is not used to this feeling anymore.) 

On his tongue the taste of blackness mingles with salt and fish and the overwhelming feeling of nostalgia - because he too remembers ~~bright as daylight~~. 

“How long ago was that?” Peter muses, absently tapping the knife’s blade to his mouth. 

‘ _Two years_.’

But something in his eyes has probably betrayed him since the boy stops his action, silver still pressed against his full mouth. 

“Seven futile calls, three messages and two voicemails.” 

The voice is light, careless and soft, spills accusations that make his stomach twist and turn, leave him speechless and shocked while he motionlessly watches the sharp tip of the knife sliding down, biting and cutting into that lower lip. He can almost feel the tiny flash of stinging pain (Peter pupils narrowing, searching for his, enthralling him). 

A frail slash of bright red. Nothing more. Not one drop of blood.

But it makes him flinch, even more than the sweet intonation. He wants to look away, to get up and leave the room again because he’s so sick of everything: of Peter, of Peter being here, in his life, of himself for being so weak as to have given into him the first time and every time afterwards. ~~For wanting him in his life and loving it~~. 

Yet he can’t. 

So he stares at the boy - silently and stoically, not revealing anything about his inner conflict - and watches him finally put down the blade, teeth and tongue worrying the small gap while he snuggles deeper into his hoodie, pulls his legs onto the bench. 

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve…” 

“I know…” 

“I used to love Christmas. Used to love it like every child: The snow, the food, the tree, my mother’s famous party on the 24th… Of course the excitement vanished from year to year as I grew older, but secretly I still loved it. Even three years ago...” Peter is merciless, continues his tale in that voice that was joyful and clear when he first heard it three years ago. “You remember that party?” 

Killian does: he could never forget about that party - that Christmas. Those memories are precious and so beautiful in the pain they cause… he could never suppress them or get rid of them. He loves them. 

But he can’t think about them now with Peter in his cabin, waiting and watching him, lurking for every flicker of emotion (proof that he has hit home, has hurt him again). Standing up, he starts cleaning the table, turns away from him. 

(Doesn’t care that it looks like retreat and surrender.) 

“It was the first time you caught my attention- the first time I no longer saw you as a neighbour, the first time I realized you were the most fascinating person in the world.” 

Too late, Killian notices the soft footsteps. Too late, he braces himself- and then Peter is behind him, pressed against his back - various layers of clothes, the internal barrier he has constructed around himself, the immediate pause in his breathing (automatic protective measures taken by his body)... they are all useless. Because he can feel the boy’s warmth, the hard bony plains of his chest, the sweet tickling nose ruffling through the hair above his nape. 

Arms circle around him. Fingers caress his wrists. Lips brush over his ear. 

~~He was a fool if he ever thought he could resist him again~~. 

“And you still are, Killian.” 

 

___

 

~Let me stay, Killian. I can be so good for you. I know it… And you know it too. Fight it, fight me, but it’s futile because you’ve already decided that you want me here. You just have to admit it aloud.~

~Say it, Killian, I have to hear it.~

~You allow me to stay.~

~You want me.~

~Say it.~

 

___

 

“I hope you don’t expect a present from me tomorrow.” 

“Don’t worry… I’m perfectly fine.” Peter laughs; a quiet sound, but amused and so open Killian has to lower his book and look at him. 

He lies on the thick carpet in front of the oven, head pillowed on his left arm, feet resting on the coffee table, face painted with flickering soft shadows, making his skin appear more tanned, eyes and hair glowing warmly. He’s still clad in Killian’s sweater, his right hand playing idly with the ribbons of the hood. 

He looks better. So much younger and rested that it hit him like a stone when the boy stepped into the living room two hours ago ~~warm and cozy, with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, emanating the scent of beautiful dreams~~. How exhausted Peter must have been, how stressed and hollowed from the four days on the road, hitchhiking from Edmonton to Pine Creek (the thought of Peter alone waiting for a ride along the highway... it still gives him the creeps, didn’t let him sleep last night), unaware of what he would find at his final destination, unaware if Killian would let him stay. 

“I don’t have anything for you either.” 

Their eyes meet and Peter’s smile vanishes as his fingers release the cord and instead start playing with the loose fabric of Killian’s seam. The lithe touch of fingertips on his naked ankles ~~almost~~ makes him shiver. 

“Is this how you spent Christmas Eve the last two years?” 

For one long second he is petrified, quick flashes of memories dancing through his mind: waking earlier this morning with Peter’s body pressed against him, warm and dead to the world, not even stirring when he climbed over him and left him alone for work. He remembers coming home to the customary darkness of his small home (the shock and pang of terror because he already expected the welcoming soft light in his living room that had greeted him yesterday) and finding the boy still curled underneath his covers, breathing white clouds into the cold of his attic bedroom (the wave of relief upon that). Remembers preparing dinner together, the quiet guitar tunes of his stereo in the background and the spicy taste of the reindeer bolognese (the buttery flavour of the pasta mingling with the saltiness of Peter’s fingertips when he offered him some to try). 

And he remembers the ugly feeling of loneliness and loathing. 

Then he nods. 

_It is a lie._

~~But he almost wishes it would be true~~. 

“My my, Killian…” An impatient click with the tongue, a sneaky hand winding the novel from his fingers. “Did you forget I always see through your lies?”

‘ _No_.’

“So tell me… about your Christmas. Was it as cozy as this? Did you like it? Maybe afterwards I’ll tell you about mine. About how I spent the one after you left staring at the spot you had sat the year before. How I wanted to scream at you and slap you. How I ended up in my room touching myself and then sneaking out to go to Michael’s party? Or about last year when I fucked the exchange student from India in my father’s wine cellar?” 

The smugness practically drips from his words as Peter places the book aside and instead folds his arms over Killian’s knees. 

“Quid pro quo, Killian.” 

He looks comfortable, settling his chin on his lower arms - warm breath brushing over his thighs, seeping through the fabric of his jeans. 

“You assume that I’m as interested in your life as you are in mine.” 

For about three sweet seconds there’s a ~~small, adorable~~ pout before it turns into an unwilling frown. And he realizes again that he has missed this: these stupid and somehow childish games. The self-consciousness with which Peter pushes himself into his life. The demanding attitude that covers his ~~hurt~~ true feelings. 

But it is this tiny childish gesture that breaks him. 

“No,” he admits. “I didn’t.” 

(Blatant triumph, well hidden hurt.)

“I spent them at the bar in Pine Creek with all the other customers who don’t have anyone to come home to. The first year I helped Brigitte to unload the truck and re-stack her storage before having dinner there and too much to drink. Last year I played some of my songs and afterwards I got myself drunk again.” 

“Sounds like fun.” 

Killian shrugs. He’s not proud of himself, but he also doesn’t care enough anymore to be ashamed. 

“And after getting yourself drunk you fucked that Brigitte in her flat above the bar.” 

A statement, not a question. 

(Blatant contempt, even better hidden hurt.) 

“Just the first time. Last year she was already pregnant and engaged to Marc.” 

“Is it your baby?” 

The question is so out of the blue that he can’t even think before replying. Can’t find time to be amused or scandalized about it. 

“Of course not!” 

But apparently his answer doesn’t fully satisfy Peter because he draws himself upright, using the hold he’s got on Killian’s legs as support - eyes fixed upon him, a smile playing on his lips as he places his knees on the couch next to his thighs, cornering him with his body, towering over him and pushing him down into the cushions. 

The position and the mild pain of Peter’s fingers digging into his shoulders is still familiar, the notion of looking up at him, of Peter watching him from slightly above… so intently searching for _something_ that it takes his breath away. 

(He doesn’t believe him.) 

Killian can see it in the wide open stare, the rigidness of his shoulders, the cruel twist of his mouth. He can feel it in the hard and merciless grip, the faint trembling of legs pressing against his own, warm waves of heavy oxygen ghosting over his lips. 

They are so close now… too suddenly, too c l o s e. He can hear nothing but the soft rustle of cotton against denim (of Peter shifting even _closer_ ), the barely perceptible inhaling, the imaginary throbbing of his heart. Peter is e v e r y w h e r e and he’s stealing his thoughts again. 

“I believe you.” 

He whispers the words into the small gap between their mouths, lips almost brushing his, distracting him from the unease, the nastiness that should crawl through his stomach, spread in his guts about a topic like this. Like an approaching thunderstorm, it should trigger the menacing feelings of sorrow and scathe. 

Yet there is _none_. 

Only P e t e r. 

(In his lungs, his veins, his mind.) 

All at once the harsh and clawing fingers unfasten their grip, leaving faint yellow bruises behind. The tense line of his back relaxes, and then Peter lowers himself onto his thighs. Brings them almost eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. The weight of him in his lap is heavy and ~~missed~~ familiar. 

They are still close, so c l o s e. Even closer than before. Touching and sharing breaths, lips tingling from the possibility of kissing. 

And just like yesterday, they don’t kiss. They just wait and learn. Two and a half years are a long time. Or maybe not - maybe it’s a short time and maybe they only have to rediscover, revive what they haven’t even forgotten. 

Just like yesterday’s evening came with Peter’s soft footsteps, with naked soles on wooden floorboards, with a wet and slender body pressing against his back - warm and vulnerable when Peter had stepped out of the shower. He didn’t know what to do- neither of them did. So he turned around from washing the dishes to look at the boy- to embrace him, to shove him away? It didn’t matter, because it was over the moment he laid eyes on him: nothing remained of the boy’s former cunning knowledge, of his eager intention and the amused and cruel sarcasm… Nothing but open weariness, downright tiredness and the flickers of doubt in his face; of unconsciousness and something like carefully buried despair. Killian wanted to close their distance, but he couldn’t. Could only listen to the small ~~pleading~~ whispers, watch Peter waiting for his answer and then for his touch, for his arms around the naked and dripping shoulders, covered with nothing but goosebumps. He doesn’t know how long they stood in the quiet light of his kitchen lamp, touching and sharing breaths until Peter’s shower warm skin grew cold and they had to part - both of them feeling less tense, less stressed for the first time since the boy had set foot over his threshold. 

When Peter finally parts from him and sits upright, obviously enjoying the shift of pressure that brings their groins together for fleeting seconds (and sends shivers down his spine)… It’s alleviating. A wave of pure relief ~~and disappointment~~. 

The sudden amount of oxygen purified of the sugary summer scent in his lungs clears his head. 

And then Peter slides from his lap onto the couch next to him, into the small space between the armrest and his side; boyish features almost unreadable again, but without visible tension as he rearranges his legs over Killian’s. 

“Read aloud for me.” 

It’s an order, dripping from full lips, still a tad too chapped, too dry - with a tiny reddish spot where Peter cut himself yesterday morning. It’s mesmerizing, and he has to rip his eyes away, seeking solace in the book, keeping the promise he has made to himself. 

“Hemingway? Isn’t that a bit too cliche?” He comments after Killian finishes the current chapter. 

“Milah recommended it to me. She thought I would like it.” 

The reaction to that name is a slight shift in the legs placed over his thighs, a short frown (so short he isn’t even sure it’s there at all) before the boy slides down, snuggles deeper into the cushions - the warmth of his body seeping through layers of fabric makes Killian painfully aware of their touch, burning like hot iron. 

“Of course.” 

(The tone is sweet and singing, but underneath there’s something bitter - like biting on the seed of a luscious grape.) 

“She was right, I really like it.” Like rubbing salt into a wound. 

(Only that he isn’t sure in whose.) 

“ _Of course_.” 

“Do you want me to continue? Otherwise I’ll read it for my own.” 

A hesitant but determined shake of the head. The ashen hair looks silky and clean, fingertips brush over his lower arm like the ghosts they are.

“Read for me. Please.” 

The caress - pleasant and innocent - doesn’t vanish, doesn’t falter. Sends tingling sensations through his body, down his spine, makes it shockingly easy to start again while Peter watches him. The only sound besides his voice is the crackle of the fire, the occasional huff of Pepper on her blanket. Warm orange light, flickering and dancing, mellowing the normally so sharp lines of Peter’s chin and eyebrows. On his tongue the taste of smoked oak and amber honey, mixed with coffee. It’s so devastatingly familiar and cozy that he should hate it, yet instead he leans into the touch, completely aware of Peter’s presence, of another person's presence. A person who is acquainted with a version of him that he barely remembers himself (with a person who understands him). He puts his unoccupied hand onto the slender legs, traces the kneecap with his thumb - partly instinctively, partly purposely. 

~~The small and scarcely audible intake of breath sends another shiver down his spine~~. 

He reads four more of the short chapters, and stops when his mouth is dry and the fire is dying. Peter is still looking at him, hasn’t moved the whole time except for the hand stroking his skin. In the dimmed light his eyes appear colourless, but the smile is familiar: the left corner of his mouth a little crooked, higher than the right one. 

~~Killian always loved that~~. 

“I got your messages,” he says. He hadn’t planned that- he’d meant to keep this secret forever… And he doesn’t understand why. The comfort of this day, the calm that settled him down, the mesmeric contact between them… It doesn’t matter.

Because the words hang in the air - already gone, evaporated - but still echoing in his head, in their heads. He would have expected to be sorry for that, disgruntled and disgusted with himself. He isn’t. He feels calm, at ease, like it was the right decision. 

Peter deserves this truth. 

“I saw the calls, I read the messages, I listened to your voicemails.” Killian doesn’t know what he is searching for while he observes the boy’s expression. What he’s hoping for. 

“I couldn’t even delete them. I memorized all of them, used them to prove to myself over and over that I fucked up everything that was good in my life.” 

So maybe that’s the reason why he cannot find it. Peter’s eyes are motionless, fixed upon him without blinking at all, offering no solution, no absolution. 

“But when I woke up on Christmas morning and found your second voicemail… I destroyed the mobile, smashed it onto the frozen ground after leaving Brigitte’s warm bed.” 

The image is burned into his memory as well as the strange blurred sound that once was Peter’s voice - diminished by five thousand miles and everything that could have been and yet never was. 

Neither of them speaks again that night. The fire dies down: the warm shimmer upon their faces vanishes slowly and turns cool and then Peter gets up. He doesn’t say anything - doesn’t have to, because they both know that Killian will follow him upstairs. 

The sheets are glacial underneath them, palpable even through the fabric of their sweatpants, but the air in his bedroom - cutting and chokingly cold - clears his head, makes him painfully aware of all the differences, the calamities and boundaries between them. Their bodies so close and so far away, their heartbeats strangely synced, with him inhaling while Peter is breathing out, following each other just like the boy followed him into this nirvana of endless white. 

 

___

 

~I didn’t want you here. Never even imagined you here. There was a reason I left.~

~The force you used to push yourself into my life was overwhelming. It took my breath away every time… it still does. You took everything from me and you want to do it again.~

~It’s too much.~

~I can’t give you what you want from me.~

~But I also can’t let you go.~

~So stay.~

 

___

_Peter came to his house three days later, dressed in already drenched jeans, bare feet and no umbrella, hair tousled from rain and wind, cheeks and lips glistening in the pale light of dusk._

_He said nothing, just waited for Killian to let him in. Eyes wandering from his face downwards (searching) and back to his eyes (still searching)._

_Killian stood at the door, peeking out through the small gap and blocking the view into the house, wanting for the boy to speak first. There was a nasty and cold clawing in his chest suddenly, an unpleasant feeling that was different from the hollowness he was so used to these days._

_“Do you always let your guests wait on the doorsteps?”_

_“Since I don’t remember inviting you and you didn’t even greet me the way a certain kind of decorum would have required… you’re not a guest.”_

_Shoulders pulled up - a shrug, a gesture of hurt?_

_“Let me in… please?”_

_“What do you want?”_

_He opened the door a bit wider, but not to let Peter in, just to take half a step outside. Clad only in baggy sweatpants and shirt, perfectly aware of the unappealing picture he painted but unable to bring himself to care as well as he had been unable to dress himself properly when he had no intention of leaving the house today._

_“I came for my lesson.”_

_“I don’t remember we had an appointment,” Trying to put some cold force into his voice, Killian stepped fully out onto the veranda and pulled the door almost closed behind him._

_But if he had expected that Peter would recede then he was wrong, because the boy didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. He just stayed, casual and resolute._

_“You offered.”_

_He drew nearer, with a soft and barely perceptible dip of his head as if he just remembered something, affirming his own words ~~like a child~~. _

_“I offered you nothing.” But it was very hard to hold onto his anger when he could smell the faint scent of moist hair and skin underneath the wet copper of a summer thunderstorm. “Look, Peter, you have to go - and don’t come back. Like I said, I’m too busy to give you guitar lessons and I don’t think I’ll go back to teaching again after this summer holidays.”_

_(Internally, he cringed, because the lie was so blatant and lame and the boy would never respect his wish for privacy and solitude.)_

_And he was right._

_Because there was a small frown, an unwilling and almost cruel smile that maybe once had been a naive pout._

_“You’re busy with what? Lying in the dark and crying into your cushion like a lovesick fool? Drinking yourself into oblivion just because your fiancee is dead?” Peter lifted his chin in a way that was both defiant and challenging (a small pointy chin, sweet and childlike still). He looked Killian right in the eyes; he was only four inches smaller than him, but appearing so young and clueless in every possible way about things like fate and fatality._

_And Killian was too tired… too weary and exhausted from getting up, from faking, from breathing. He couldn’t muster the strength to express any revolt._

_“She died five weeks ago, not five months. I have every right to mourn without anyone trying to distract me.”_

_Peter’s answer was another smile - this time softer and more lenient ~~gentle~~ , an apology whispered in an even softer voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ as if he knew perfectly well what it meant to lose somebody so beloved like Milah, to fuck up his own life so completely that it nearly choked him every time he took breath. _

_(He should be glad for him.)_

_“Just let me in, Killian, please. My parents aren’t at home and I forgot my keys. I promise I won’t bother you. You won’t even notice I’m there.”_

_The face was so honest, so hopeful and just too_ real _. So Killian did. Although he knew he should have tried harder to keep the boy out, to send him away, off to his friend, anywhere. But he couldn’t. So he gave in. Looked at the bright smile (indecipherable, a mixture of archness, of charm and of mirth). So he receded. Opened the door wide to allow him in._

_(Later he would spend many sleepless hours finding words to justify why he did this. Anything that helped him to understand and forgive himself. Perhaps it was because Peter had been soaking wet again, smelling of rain and life, but most of all he had smelled of loneliness - a scent he knew all too well - and he radiated this feeling, underlaid with the coldness of indifference that Killian shivered because this too was something he knew very well. Or perhaps it was just because Peter was there - seeking his company, unbothered by all those past events- not to cheer him up or make him even more uncomfortable with words meant to assure and console him. Watching him with the intent curiosity of a cat observing a mouse, with that certain eagerness as if Killian was the most fascinating thing in the world. Offering attention without the benevolence and pity of his friends.)_

_In the absence of light and any feeling of shame Killian went into the kitchen and made two cups of coffee. Peter leaned next to him at the counter, toes curling on the cool tiles, dripping wet until he left him to monitor the water kettle and brewing. He took two towels from the small rack in the bathroom, clean and pristine terrycloth, redolent of summer and flower fields. A scent that mingled with the warm caramel bitterness of the coffee when he re-entered the kitchen._

_“I’m afraid I don’t have any milk… or anything else to offer.”_

_“It’s okay.”_

_Peter wrapped the big towel around his shoulders as they made their way into the living room. The wooden shutters were closed, making the room even darker than it would have been with the cloudy and dull sky outside if the windows were all open - a subtle breeze stirring the plain linen curtains, the countless dry petals from dozens of withered bouquets spread on the dining table, the old cherry tree sideboard, the piano and the floor._

_(He could hear Peter’s breathing and the moment it stopped.)_

_Without another word they sat down on the couch, coffee mugs in their hands._

_The coffee table was a mess of music sheets, condolence cards and photos. In between: bottles, pizza boxes, dirty dishes and glasses. On the floor beside it a big black folder with the typical simple cross upon it, probably containing bills and contracts from the mortician; carelessly used as a tray for something that smelled suspiciously like some soured milk forgotten in a soup plate. Killian couldn’t even remember when and why he had put it there._

_“That’s disgusting.” Peter stated, nose wrinkled, voice disdainful._

_“Yeah, I guess,” he shrugged. “Milah had a cat, from one of her pupils. Don’t know where it is right now… probably ran away, clever thing.”_

_Peter lifted his feet onto the table, making room for them by shoving away an empty bottle of Bushmills and a package of cereals. Careful not to put them into the reddish brown stains on the wood, he leaned back, snuggling deeper into the towel and the cushions._

_(Against the white fabric, he appeared more tanned than he really was.)_

_Killian did the same._

_They sat in silence, drinking their coffee and listening to the sound of the rain outside: the heavy drops on the wooden patio, the occasional lighter splatters when they fell into the ashtray, the metallic clanking when they hit the watering can. Vanishing light turned into complete darkness, but neither of them stood up to switch on the light. Eerie blueness swallowed them, sometimes interrupted from a car passing by - white slivers darting through and over curtains, sliding over ceiling, walls and furniture, blinding them for short seconds before disappearing again. Ghosts and ghostly visitors, brushing them with a normality they were no longer part of. All accompanied with the almost too quiet, sinister whispers of the dried flowers rustling in the soft shifts of wind._

_The warmth of the drink vanished, the pale curls of steam disappeared and every sip was more bitter than the one before._

_He didn’t know how much time had passed, but when he finally came back into the more solid presence Killian was not surprised that Peter was there even though he’d totally forgotten about him. Cheekbones covered in goosebumps, the mug with cold coffee pressed against his chest._

_“You should get out of those wet clothes.”_

_“Maybe.”_

_“You should go. It’s after 11pm, surely your parents are home now.”_

_“Maybe.”_

_Killian wished the boy would leave and at the same time he didn’t care enough to make him. So he didn’t. But when he got up to pour himself another cup he also brought another for his visitor, another cup that Peter took with a small nod, a long pale gaze crawling over his hand, his arm until it lingered upon his face. It was unsettling._

_Unnerving._

_Made him shake when he added a generous amount of whiskey into his cup._

_“Not used to company while getting drunk?”_

_“I’m not getting drunk. I’m trying to forget.”_

_“Doesn’t look as if it’s working.”_

_Without any pause Peter offered him his own mug, and when Killian refused and put the bottle down, he did it himself - never taking his eyes from him, daring him to prohibit it, to stop him. Yet Killian didn’t care, the layer of apathy was too thick, to heavy to shake off._

_The combined taste of hot coffee and honeyed barley warmed him up at once and he leaned back, lowered his head onto the backrest, eyes towards the ceiling - navy in the darkness, seemingly endless._

_After a while, Peter followed his motion, head suddenly next to his own, facing him. The weight of his staring was a constant pressure, like an itching or scratching patch of skin._

_“What do you want?” His tongue stumbled over the words, tired and exhausted from days of hollowness, from feeling too much and nought at all._

_“Nothing,” His breath smelled of coffee spiced up with alcohol. Hair still slightly damp. And even though they didn’t touch, he was too close - Killian couldn’t concentrate on anything else._

_“Then you should leave.”_

_“I don’t think so… There’s plenty of_ nothing _here to discover.” A hand reached out for him, for his mug - empty now. There was a dull sound when it got placed onto the table and then the hand was back again, birdlike with soft palms and cold skin, upon his eyes, shading them, shutting them while the sharp youthful voice told him the fairy tale of the princess and the donkey’s skin._

_He felt himself drifting away, the words entangling him, seeping into his head, into his dreams - cloudlike, akin to vapour._

_“Milah also loved fairy tales.”_

 

___

**End Chapter 02**

Thanks for reading ♥

 

PS: I'm aware that many things and visuals of this story may remind somebody of the "The words" music video, yet this is purely coincidence. I planned everything (and also wrote about the half of it) before anything of the music video was released.

PPS: the parts in _italics_ are flashbacks.


	3. Chapter 3

Again, sorry for the delay, but real life (college and work) happened (again)… I guess I should give up on the plan of updating every other week and rather make it once in a month? 

Thank you so much for your kind comments and kudos so far! They all made my day ♥ 

And also thank you [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou), for your incredible patience regarding my endless and persisting questions with his update ♥

Have fun with this part!

**End of the earth**

 

**Chapter 03**

Of course Killian notices that he has been followed. Voices and sounds carry in the white darkness between the blackened corpses of the trees. So he isn’t surprised when Salt’s swift shadow is suddenly beside him, nose nudging his thigh in greeting before he disappears in the near undergrowth of leafless bushes and small conifers, heading into the direction of the lake.

Half a minute later he can make out the ragged breathing of Pepper shuffling through three feet of snow, her small final sprint after she has spotted him, the little yelp (because she’s a spoiled old lady) as he bows down and ruffles the long fur behind her ears. 

Another minute later then soft crunches of careful steps approaching him, the quiet shifting of fabric when Peter finally reaches him. 

“There you are.” The voice is raspy, heavy with sleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He turns, because there’s nothing else he can do. It’s not an excuse - they don’t do apologies. 

(They are both not good with them.)

“Well… you have to understand that I’m a bit distrustful when you sneak out in the middle of the night,” Peter drawls, stopping before he’s close enough to touch: an unfamiliar, wide distance; deafening even. “And I’ve got every right to.”

Killian doesn’t flinch; there’s nothing he can say to that.

“I needed some space. To get out. To clear my head.” Taking a last deep drag from his cigarette, he savours the intense burn of smoke finding its way into his lungs, the choking and suffocating draught in the back of his throat, the bright and scorching fire in his brain before he throws it away. 

The long and disturbing hiss when it lands in the snow (creating an ugly wound in the pristine surface of white). 

He wants to flinch. 

At least this time Peter wears a scarf and the old winter boots Killian uses for work around the house. White laces of ice have started to form on his lashes and eyebrows, on the short strands of hair around his face. 

“Is this going to be a thing? You sliding out of my bed in the middle of the night? And not coming back so that I wake up alone and cold? I just want to know… because I hate it.”

It’s not guilt that he is feeling now whenever he remembers. Or maybe it is - but mainly it’s regret and sadness. 

For all the wrong reasons. 

Guilt was the feeling that had settled in his stomach, then the weighty hollowness that took up all the space for every other feeling inside him. It had replaced his grief and his love. Destroyed his memories. It was the reason he left, but everything became worse then. 

~~The unusual comfort and the fragile happiness he had felt with this boy~~. 

“I would’ve come back.” 

“Tell me how I should have known?” Peter raises his eyebrow; he looks ~~hurt and disappointed~~ irritated and disgusted. Arms around his upper body, protecting himself from the cold and maybe from Killian.

(It stings.)

“I left everything behind, my dogs, my cabin, my _home_.” His intonation is snappier and angrier than intended. He can see it from the flinch of Peter’s shoulders, the widening of his eyes, the sharp intake of breath - steeling himself for the clash. 

“You left everything behind two years ago: your house, your job, _me_.”

It stings. ~~It’s guilt. But mainly it’s regret and sadness~~. 

“I didn’t leave _you_ behind. You were the reason I left. And that wasn’t home, not after Milah’s death.” 

“You’re a liar.” 

Peter steps closer (close enough to touch); the white of his breath caresses Killian’s face like the thinnest veil. The cold seeps into his skin like tears. 

He shivers even before the boy is pressed against him. 

It’s too dark to see every freckle of emotion revealed in his eyes, the light too murky to distinguish the lines of his face. There are various layers of clothing between them (they have been way closer and much less dressed before) to feel anything of his body, of Peter’s warmth. But he has never felt so cornered, so exposed and vulnerable since that day over two years ago. 

Not even when Peter stepped out of the shadows of his porch last week. When he crawled into his bed the night before Christmas. Or the first time he ever felt the boy’s lanky body against his own - sliding into the small space between him and the backrest of the couch, ripping him out of hazy, unhappy dreams. 

(So soft and pliant and naked. All long limbs and daring touches, lingering kisses and fleeting promises.) 

~~He’s a liar~~. 

Peter’s voice is clear and flat - he whispers the words against his mouth although they both know. They’ve never forgotten. 

“You fucked me. You told me you love me. And the next morning you were gone.”

Killian wants to shut his eyes. Doesn’t want to remember the bluish twilight in Peter’s room that night, the sweat drying on their skin, cooling and soothing, the wind in the hickory leaves whispering about the approaching autumn while he kissed the sharp lines of collarbones and chin - slightly salty and bitter sweet. Their frantic breathing slowing down, tense limbs going soft as sleep settled in. The fatal words dripping from his mouth without him noticing, without him realizing how true they had been. 

~~Still are~~. 

Long moments stolen from eternity. Paid with the price of their present. 

His insides are burning, he feels sick. But he ran away back then - untangled himself from the warm body in his arms, grabbed his belongings and fled. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. 

(He’s a liar. Because it was the easiest thing he had ever done.)

He won’t run away again. 

“I thought you were asleep. You weren’t supposed to hear.”

Peter is within his space (again, like always. Like he belongs there). He can feel him turning even colder. Radiating no warmth, no glory: fingers sneak around his wrists, seeking skin, resting upon his pulse. They are of almost equal height and Killian could easily push him away - still thin as a rail - but instead he offers his hands.

“So it is true?” 

“It was.” Turns his palms upside, shows flesh and bones, lines and calluses. Invisible. But they both are aware of them even when nobody is looking down. 

(The obviousness of their linked past.) 

“Liar.” 

The words cut. Peter has always been good with knives and blades and hurting Killian with the knowledge of his deepest depths. But this time he’s wrong (because Killian is telling the truth). 

And it hurts. 

“No. Not this time.” 

There is no way he can be sure the brief, sweet shock on Peter’s face is real, a swift slip in his perfect countenance…but then the second passes and he’s too late, he grasps for it, dives for it, unable to catch it. 

“It was true back then… two years ago.” He waits for the slender hands to crawl upwards, a creepy trail on his bare skin underneath the seams of his parka. “But two years are a long time and we’re no longer the same persons we were.” 

“ _I am_.” It’s a wisp of words. The only reason Killian knows it’s _real_ is the way Peter is unable to meet his eyes. “I am still the same.” 

And then he raises his gaze again - razorlike and _real_. 

“You may have changed… but you are still a liar.” 

The fingertips have reached their goal; the point where the flesh is most tender and fragile, where they can feel his blood beating, where they can soak up the heat evaporating from his red. 

“Only that you believe your own lies now. That you don’t know that you’re lying anymore.” 

There is nothing like complete silence. There are the muffled sounds of Pepper near their feet, of Salt breaching the undergrowth, nosing the faint track of a careless rabbit, the snow crunching under their feet, oxygen pouring through their tracheae, heartbeats drumming in their auditory canals… painful in their thoraxes. 

But in these seconds it is. Completely and utterly. Silent. 

And then Peter shifts onto his tiptoes and destroys what’s left of the remaining distance between them, never letting go of his wrists.

His lips feel different. Almost hard and stunned from the cold, not neat and nimble like Killian was used to. They slide over his own, less warm, and they leave behind a shocking tingle before the small tip of tongue snakes in between, gliding over his teeth while he’s too slow, too enthralled to lean back or turn his face away. But the lack of hesitation, the assertive and self-certain way Peter changes the angle, of sucking on his lower lip is yet very familiar and the softness of the low sigh is almost heart wrenching, touches him somewhere deep inside, so that he finally opens up, allows entrance. 

The taste is different; toothpaste and sleepy dreams - two years passed without a touch and a kiss. Without Peter’s eyes upon him, watching him with rapture and shameless fascination...

Killian breaks away, tears his arms lose, breathing faster than the short moments require.

“Are you trying to prove I haven’t changed?!” His mouth is still heavy from the weight of Peter inside, his body alive with memories and yearning. 

(He wishes he could be angrier, wishes he could feel the appropriate feelings. But maybe the boy is right after all.) 

“No… I am trying to prove that _I_ haven’t changed.” 

There is none of the viciousness or the triumph he would have expected. It’s the same quiet voice from earlier. 

Never before has Killian seen him so lost… so full and yet vacant of his previous conviction. Shattered. As if the kiss also did something to Peter he didn’t expect. 

He can’t take a step back, the thought alone… is impossible. They have been sleeping together in one bed, under the same covers since the second night the boy came here, they have been so much more intimate - sharing clothes and breaths, warmth and skin; but parting from him right now… is impossible. It is too thrilling and it’s too good. 

“I should’ve told you.”

It’s the only one of the thousand thoughts crossing his mind that he can voice. ~~More a feeling than a thought~~. Painful to admit although he knows it’s the terrible truth. Painful to admit because it’s the terrible truth. 

(But not as painful as admitting that he hasn’t changed the way he wanted to.)

“No. You should have stayed.” 

 

___

 

// I know why you left me, Killian. You are disconcerted and disturbed. But that doesn’t mean I can ever forgive you. It was my birthday, Killian, and the present you left me was not that stupid guitar, but the scent of your hair on my cushion, of your warmth on my sheets, the outline of your body in my bed. I smashed the guitar against the walls in your empty house, I changed the covers of my bed… but still I could not sleep in it for a week. The stench of your gutlessness almost made me vomit. I hate you for that. //

 

___

 

_Peter came back - on Friday._

_It was way too early in the morning, when Killian found him sitting on the steps leading to his backyard. Comfortable and wide awake he leaned against the wooden railway reading a thick leather bound book. He was wearing dark aviator sunglasses and a white tank top that revealed faint tanning lines._

_He looked young when Killian stepped towards him shielding his eyes against the too bright daylight, awfully aware of the piercing headache in his left temporal._

_“What are you doing here?”_

_His voice was friendlier than he had intended, tongue still dry from sleep._

_When Peter turned around it was a slow and reluctant movement as if something very interesting had caught his attention and it was hard to tear himself away from that._

_He took off his earplugs and cocked his head slightly; the surprise on his face so totally fake that Killian didn’t believe him one second._

_“You’re awake?”_

_“Obviously.” He stretched carefully, neck and shoulders aching from the short and uncomfortable night._

_“I brought you breakfast.”_

_“That’s nice of you, although totally unnecessary.” A part of him wanted to return into the house and leave Peter, wanted to go away and not care. But another one insisted on staying, on not complying to whatever game the kid was playing. “But you didn’t answer my question.”_

_“You shouldn’t sleep on the couch. It’s not good for your back.”_

_Eyes wandered over him, quietly and tenderly. Brushing from his feet over his knees, thighs, crawling over his groin, his chest. Not long enough for any kind of protest or accusation, yet certainly too long to not raise any feeling of awkwardness, of nervousness in Killian… before they settled on his face._

_(His lips, his chin, his cheekbones. His own blue eyes.)_

_Too long. Peter’s gaze was too heavy to turn away._

_“How did you know...you’ve been inside the house?!” He didn’t bother with locking the door to the porch, didn’t even close it - there’s nothing of value left, nothing to protect._

_“The window was open… You shouldn’t be so irresponsible. You never know who could take advantage of that.”_

_Killian shrugged. He didn’t care. Sitting down on the wooden bench, he picked up the cigarettes from the windowsill, pulled the clay ashtray closer._

_“Did you bring coffee too? Cause I don’t think there’s any left.”_

_Without an answer Peter got up, recklessly shoving the white cords of his earplugs into the pocket of his pants. A sweet smile spread on his lips as he placed the thick book upon the table before he disappeared inside the house._

_Maybe he should have gotten dressed, should’ve done anything… but instead Killian just picked up the huge tome and placed his feet onto the chair next to him. It was too hot already, too sticky to care, if he still cared about anything at all._

_Skimming through the book - fingers sliding over the thin pages, old and worn out at the edges - he inhaled silently, enjoyed every deep and sharp drag._

_(The taste of burnt wood on his tongue, the raspiness in his throat, the clouds of smoke filling his head.)_

_It was a beautiful book, bound in burgundy leather, with stunning images of strangely familiar and yet foreign plants, circular diagrams of constellations and signs, naked women connected with pipes or veins. The inscription was art for itself, swirls and curls and dots and strokes - an unknown language, calligraphy, pale from age and time. Intriguing and disturbing._

_It was an odd book for a boy so young, and even though it was clearly just an old copy from an ancient manuscript, he didn’t doubt that it was rare, and that it was expensive._

_“My parent’s Christmas present last year.”_

_Killian flinched; he couldn’t control the instinct when Peter suddenly appeared next to him, soundless with his soft steps. Carrying the wooden tray laden with plates and food, he offered him a mug of freshly brewed coffee, dark and steaming, smelling of home and comfort._

_The hot liquid burned the tip of his tongue but the pain only helped to quicken his heartbeat and clear his mind._

_“Why a copy?”_

_There were tomatoes and grapes, scrambled eggs and rolls, a glass of water - everything looked surprisingly healthy and delicious. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was._

_“Actually it is a copy of a copy...but it’s still the most expensive thing I own. Presumably it’s about four hundred years old and the previous owner is supposed to have been one of the founders of the Royal Society. The original is stored at Yale.”_

_The water was cool and refreshing; it ran smoothly over his tongue, cleaning it from staining traces of coffee and alcohol - purifying._

_Peter sat down opposite to him, the white of his shirt bright in the shadows of the porch when he stretched carefully to help himself to the black grapes. Smiling. Waiting. Sneaking food off the plate and licking his fingers clean after every bite before he pulled the bowl with tomatoes towards him to cut them._

_“I’ve never seen characters like these… What language is it?”_

_“Either a dead one or one that never existed at all.”_

_Killian watched the tiny sharp knife slicing through the tomatoes, how they immediately bled reddish-clear liquid and tiny seeds onto the white porcelain (the sweet and familiar scent of summer)._

_“So you’re trying to decipher it? Why?”_

_Peter pushed the plate into the middle of the table since he hadn’t bothered to bring himself one and obviously enjoyed sharing both mug and glass with Killian._

_“I like secrets.”_

_It was hypnotic. The precise and careless movements of the silver edge so close to the subtle fingertips. The barely audible sound of metal hitting ceramic._

_“I like mysteries.”_

_A peek of pink tongue slid over the cold blade, gathered juice and shreds of orange-red tomato skin. The flash of green that watched him_ watching _._

_“And I like unraveling mysteries.”_

_Neither of them looked away when Peter placed the knife beside the plate with the fruits; one straight and perfect line connecting them, the tip pointing towards Killian._

_(He shouldn’t stare. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t shiver.)_

_“So that’s what you’re looking for here?” He swallowed dryly. His fingertips ached and his pulse throbbed._

_“In case you got me wrong those two times before… I’m not here for guitar lessons. I wouldn’t waste any time with you on learning how to play the guitar. I’m here for_ you _. The only thing I want to learn about is_ you _.”_

_His heart beat so hard and fast in his chest that it drowned out every other sound except the strangely intent and childish voice. Drowned out the high-pitched and almost hysterical internal laughter, the urgent and eager wish to escape or shove the boy out of his life because this…this was madness. And it could never end well._

_(The boy was madness - he could see it in his eyes.)_

_“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_The words felt empty, tasted wrong in his mouth._

_“Why?”_

_“Because you’re a child. You don’t know about things like this.” He grabbed the knife, turning the blade away from him. The sharpness of Peter’s eyes was enough to bear._

_“I know what I want.”_

_“I highly doubt that.” This time his voice came out exactly the way he intended it: dry and sarcastic - superior._

_“Because I want you?” The questioning curve of eyebrows was so neat and elegant that Killian couldn’t help getting distracted by it, fascinated._

_“Because you obviously don’t know what you want.”_

_Peter’s smile was so bright and beautiful that for two seconds he forgot about everything. Everything he felt, everything he wanted to feel. He just stared at him. Amused and flattered and intrigued. More amused than flattered and more flattered than intrigued, but completely unable to fathom any of those previous darker, sicker emotions when the boy raised himself onto his knees on the wooden bench, leaning over the wide table, arms slender and willowy, skin stretching over collarbones and shoulders. His lips ceased to smile, became more relaxed and full._

_And Killian’s mind was utterly blank. So full of nothing that he didn’t flinch, didn’t protest or shove the boy away._

_He just breathed - must have, because later he remembered the scent of Peter’s skin so close before their lips had met. The scent of bacon and milk mixed with the scent of his own shame - a memory that would haunt him for eternity._

_He never closed his eyes - could not have, because later he remembered every spot of brown and grey in Peter’s green irises, the blackness of his pupils and his lashes, the palest shadows of freckles on the bridge of his nose and the small circular scar over his left eye._

_He never answered the kiss - he is sure of this, but later he remembered every single second, the lush feeling of the lower lip against his. The teasing innuendo of the upper lip, the daring move of a hot inquiring tip of tongue, the shocking flash of coldness striking his body and then… teeth biting down. And the taste that before was nothing but a scent. Teeth, taste and then again the tongue, sliding past the yielding barrier to brush over his own._

_Just a few (neverending) seconds._

_Then (finally) Peter stopped._

_Crawling backwards, slowly, a fluent shift of his still slightly out of place limbs, he folded his legs underneath his body and continued eating, calm and slow like before._

_Killian realized he made a mistake. Probably over a week a ago when he had offered the boy a ride, probably four days ago when he had let him into his house. But definitely now, when he hadn’t pushed him away or allowed him to stay and eat breakfast with him even though he could still taste the boy inside his mouth._

_(The words like poison in his ears.)_

_“Do I look to you like someone who doesn’t know what he wants?”_

_Yes._

_No._

_Killian didn’t know anything anymore except the bittersweet guilt sticking on the inner surface of his lips where Peter had bitten him: the dead silence inside his head because nothing made sense anymore and his crumbled world had been puzzled together in the wrongest possible way._

_“Believe me, I know exactly what I want and_ why _.”_

_The green was blinding. Shielded with lashes and shadows, with soft brown hairs around a sharp face. Features a mixture of childishness and adulthood, disturbing and delectable at the same time._

_The feeling that this boy was maybe more aware of life and people and the frail thread between everything than he initially thought._

_(The creepy feeling of a fate he couldn’t escape.)_

_“I can’t,” he said, his voice bereft of any emotion, mimicking his numbing blankness, devoid of any clue what he even meant with those words._

_But Peter just smiled again. Slowly and seemingly self-forgetful - lazy in the beginning heat of another summer day. It was a mellow curl and Killian noticed for the first time that the left corner of that mouth ended the vaguest bit higher than the other one. Almost imperceptible, and yet he was sure he would never forget about it, would never fail to search for this small irregularity._

_“That’s okay.”_

_Picking another handful of grapes, he leaned back, knees against the edge of the table, skin visible through the torn fabric of his jeans._

_~~How old was he?~~ _

_When he reached for his mug of coffee Peter’s gaze rested heavily on him, followed his every movement. The black liquid ran down his throat - lukewarm and bitter, extinguishing the taste of everything else._

_(The strange salty sweet-sourness that had burned on his lips.)_

_Yet the nagging hollowness and the feeling of sickness remained during the rest of the morning. Like the sticky heat in his neck, the scratchiness of his throat and the overwhelming scent of Milah’s heliotrope and rosemary._

_Because Peter didn’t leave after breakfast, didn’t leave after clearing the table and returning with two refills of coffee before he sat down again on the steps, book balanced on his legs, sunglasses shading his eyes once more._

_Killian wanted to send him away, wanted to go back into the darkness of his living room, to be alone again. (At least that’s what he told himself later.) But instead he dressed himself into his well worn work jeans and an old shirt, already dotted with greenish and white stains from wet grass and paint._

_He started with the raspberry bushes, reaping the dark red berries from the overhanging branches after he had finally found the small porcelain bowl with the old-fashioned forget-me-not pattern Milah had usually used in the cupboard over the sink. His fingertips were dark pink when he was done, and so were Peter’s as he slowly and provokingly savoured them, setting his book aside first to observe him staking up or cutting back the snapped off branches from last week’s thunderstorm._

_The sun was high in the sky and he was sweating from mowing the lawn - the grass had been long and neglected, a deep and rich green, the fresh odour filling the air with its taste of summer. Killian’s neck and forehead were wet with salty moisture, but it was surprisingly satisfying to feel the movement of his muscles and joints, his body’s fragments shifting together after such a long time of being broken and shattered - the exhausting heaviness resulting from physical labour instead of depressing idleness._

_If he suspected that Peter would maybe get bored and leave, then he was (again) wrong. Because whenever he looked into the direction of the porch the boy was still there, lounging on the bottommost step, legs stretched out onto the cool grass as he sipped improvised iced coffee and read one of Killian’s books he had obviously swiped out of his bedroom where it had been stacked on a neat and forgotten pile next to his bed._

_(The concept of the boy, seeingdiscoveringmemorizing everything in that room… made him go cold in the middle of the summer heat.)_

_But he swallowed every protest, every sound of displeasure at the prospect of facing defiant and shockingly true questions in return. Those eyes were too green and too knowing, the smile too sharp and too dangerous._

_So he chose to ignore both - book and boy - and continued his work around the house and in the garden, just stealing occasional glances every now and then; confused (and alleviated) when he didn’t move to bid his goodbye._

_“How about some help?” He asked during a short break to drink cool water in the shadow of his patio. A tiny part of him wondered - worried - about Peter’s skin, exposed to the sun’s intensity. And again he couldn’t say anything (anything that wouldn’t come out the wrong way)._

_“I’d rather stay here.” Wrinkling his nose, Peter narrowed his sunglasses and straightened up. “The sight is quite pleasurable, you know.”_

_Killian wished he hadn’t noticed the glittering sweat that pooled in the hollows of those fragile clavicles, the beginning hue of red on those previously light shoulders. ~~He wished those words hadn’t made his heart beat faster in the emptiness of his chest~~. _

_Sitting down on the wooden steps (far away from him), he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The heat and the stickiness of the afternoon covered the neighbourhood like a blanket - cozy and smothering; everything was eerily quiet, the sounds of birds, cars and children muted, more like a low humming, soothing instead of annoying. Every movement felt slower and more tiring than usual. The air in their lungs was hot and paralysing, strangely hard and easy to breath._

_Time seemed endless, crawling into eternity -_ they _were endless and invincible, for death had ceased to exist._

_Everything about this scenery was so familiar and so foreign (the scent of summer, the water carafe, the book Peter was reading, the way they sat on the stairs, the stains of green from the freshly mown grass, the comfortable silence between them ~~and later the hesitant and stumbling chords on the guitar, the elegant and nimble fingers so clumsy on the strings, the furrowed brows as he fought for the perfect rhythm, the features becoming softer, almost blissful when Killian finally took the instrument out of the shaking hands and finished the song for him, humming along with the melody~~.) it should have made him choke, sick with nostalgia and memories. _

_But instead he felt calm. Content. For the first time in weeks._

_“So… did you learn something interesting today?” He wanted to bite down the words but it was too late._

_Maybe he could tell himself afterwards that he had referred to their short session on the guitar. But he had always been tempted to play with fire and the devil, to go against rules and morals, to catch people by surprise. And the faint glint of something like that in Peter’s eyes - the slight twitch of the left corner of his mouth - was immensely satisfying._

_(More than he would ever admit.)_

_“Actually yes, I learned some interesting things.” The hand not holding the huge tome wandered over the wooden gate, brushed from picket to picket, lazy and playful. “Even though I already told you that I consider everything about you interesting...”_

_His tone revealed slight impatience paired with same lenient amusement he had shown earlier._

_“You shouldn’t try to fawn over me. It’s not working.”_

_“I‘m not trying to fawn you. I’m telling the truth and we both know it_ is _working.” The fingers floundered over the rounded tops, occasionally scratching where the paint was peeling off. Some of the crusty flakes rained down while others stuck on the sweaty fingertips, white and sharp looking, like shards of porcelain - and Killian had to hide the shiver, the instinctive itch to jerk away._

_“How do you assume that?”_

_“I don’t assume it - I_ know _it.” Peter laughed. “And I know it because you always let me in, because you didn’t push me away when I kissed you and you didn’t throw me out afterwards.”_

_“I didn’t return the kiss.”_

_“You said that you_ can’t _. Not that you don’t want to.”_

_‘Then I’m telling you now ‘_ I don’t want to _’.’_

_Killian intended to say it, to say them - those four little words; he could already feel them on his tongue, their acidic and alleviating weight - but then they turned into ashes inside his mouth, acrid and sticky. So he just stared at the boy and said nothing._

_Both of them were silent, observing each other. Peter’s fingertips still covered with whitish stains of old paint, twitching and trembling almost imperceptibly, quivering over the gate. His threadbare tank top, with the washed out logo, the faded and torn jeans, eyes pale and tired - young and old at the same time, in the same body (_ ageless, timeless _)._

_It was very obvious that he wanted to touch him again. That he yearned to touch him. To slide the warm fingertips over Killian’s lower arm, over his wrists and knuckles - soft and lingering._

_But maybe this was all for show, meant to deceive him, to confuse and tempt him. For Peter was usually not that transparent, he was marble - a cool surface of stone and control. So he’d just laughed, a sound that came out way more relaxed and honestly amused than he had expected (and thankfully less flattered than he had dreaded)._

_“See?” the voice wasn’t even smug, just… neutral. Completely neutral. Stating a ~~unpleasant but nevertheless true~~ fact. “So, when do you want me to come back?”_

_“Since when do you care what I want regarding your visits?”_

_There had been a slight slip of that composure again, something warm and fond, paired with a minuscule flicker of the earlier smile._

_He’d liked it. Liked that for the first time he could see the boy that Peter once must have been before he had become this._

_A g e l e s s / s o u l l e s s._

_“I’ll come tomorrow. Someone has to feed you, after all.”_

_Killian took a step forward, leaned upon the wooden gate, narrowing the distance between them once more. Again he was so close - almost as close as this morning the second before Peter had kissed him - he could see every detail on the boy’s face again, now immersed in shadows, the cold grey colours of night. The strands of hair made of ashes, the skin pale and even more flawless - every freckle lost in the darkness, the slight sunburn on the bridge of his nose and the curve of his shoulders vaporised in the streetlights._

_The temperature was imperceptibly cooler now, with a soft breeze coming from the east, ruffling hair and brushing over heated skin, bringing relief to dry mouths and lungs. The sweetness of honeysuckle filled the air together with the scent of warm asphalt. Everything was still lazy and heavy - minds clouded and tired, slow after a long day of sun and summer heat. Sweat dried on warm skin, making it itchy and pleasantly sticky._

_“Don’t you have any other friends?”_

_They were both perfectly aware that Killian knew about his friends and Peter raised his eyebrow testily, impatiently._

_“‘I’ve known them for years now. They are not as interesting as you.”_

_“Nice.”_

_The boy shrugged, obviously annoyed about this topic ~~about every topic that was not Killian~~. So he let it drop and put more distance between them, intending to end this conversation, this intensity. This strangely relaxed day. _

_(Peter seemed disappointed, but maybe that was all in his imagination.)_

_“Go to bed, Killian. You look tired.”_

_Then he turned without any word of goodbye and left Killian at the gate, alone in the orange hue of the just switched-on streetlights. Behind him, the small silent house, windows blind and dark. Dead like everything else in his life._

_Killian didn’t know how long he stood there after the boy had disappeared around the corner, the slender figure a fair streak in the loneliness of their suburban neighbourhood. He didn’t know why it was so important to make sure that he really went away before he went into the house. And he didn’t know why he suddenly felt cold, but when he finally undressed and stepped into the shower his arms were covered with goosebumps._

_Later, lying on the narrow couch in the living room, he still couldn’t shake off that sinister excitement of being watched, of foreboding, of having provoked a storm he couldn’t control any longer.  
_

___

**End Chapter 03**


	4. Chapter 4

Hi, I meant to upload this chapter far far sooner, but real life is a bit busy at the moment… But at least we’re close to Christmas and since this was meant to be a Christmas Story it’s much more fitting to post it now. This is the longest chapter so far and the one that’s the most dearest to me. I hope you like it as well! 

Comments would be lovely ♥ 

I should probably apologize for any eventual mistakes that are still left in this chapter, even though [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) tried her best to eliminate them - every single one of them is my fault and not her’s for she’s the best beta one could ever wish for and this story would never exist without her (or at least it wouldn’t even be half as good). 

I hope you enjoy this part (although it’s a maybe a bit sad). 

 

**End of the earth**

 

**Chapter 04**

Things have changed. Or not. Because they’re still doing the same and he still feels the same. Peter is here - back in his life with a naturalness like before (the first time, two and a half years ago and the second time a week and a half ago).

The one thing that has changed is the lack of guilt. Or the lack thereof, because he likes his presence and his touches so very much. 

The road ahead is wide and empty. Huge piles of snow border the left and right sides, grey and dirty from the sanding truck, spread from hundreds of vehicles that traveled the highway north- or southbound. Behind them the snow is white and pure, covering the pines and grounds that stretch endlessly over the soft hills and vales onward to the great plains that lead to the Beaufort Sea. 

Peter is beside him, eyes fixed on the various colours of the horizon, the pale shades of orange and pink overflowing into blue and whitish grey. The sun is invisible, but it’s early in the afternoon and he knows that the light will vanish soon and allow darkness to cover the world. 

“I haven’t seen any northern lights since I got here…” 

His voice is flat, neutral almost, but when Killian looks sideways he can see a short glimpse of disappointment. 

“It’s too warm, too many clouds,” He shrugs. “It’s supposed to turn colder again the next few weeks.” 

Letting his gaze linger for a few seconds, he waits for Peter to meet his eyes before he has to concentrate on driving. The boy has opened his coat, shoved the scarf into the space between his thigh and the frigid door of the pick-up. The dark red of Killian’s flannel looks strange on him, odd and unfamiliar - it clashes with his skin - while his old warm boots that he’s still wearing look so fitting for him. 

“If you’re going to stay we have to find you warmer clothes.” (He doesn’t even query anymore that Peter will stay. He should, but he doesn’t.)

“I don’t mind sharing yours.” 

Yes, he knows. He remembers. There’s not much he doesn’t remember now that Peter is here with him, triggering all those memories he had buried or destroyed like he did that old mobile phone. 

“Maybe we’ll drive to the city next week. I could take the day off on Friday.” 

“Sounds good… I need some new books too. I’m sick of your old men books.” 

His voice is soft. A lightness that conceals the heaviness of what they are about to do. But just that quick flash of thought makes his skin prickle; a cold shiver raises the hairs in his neck. He’s not afraid - not anymore. And when Peter had asked him that same question after they had just woken up this morning (warm, tangled and well rested) he'd told him the same thing. He’s not afraid, but he doesn’t like things to change. Especially when these things have shattered his entire world. 

They reach Pine Creek with the beginning of dusk: a few brave rays of the setting sun catch on the frozen river’s ice, making it sparkle and appear more blue and clear than it truly is. Streetlights flicker to life, windows already homey with yellow light and shadows of families behind them, hooded and warmly dressed figures heading home. The gas station is a bright sea of blue and red, livelier than the surrounding areas. Passing it to head towards the small town center, he hopes that Greg hasn’t recognized his car, but who does he think he’s fooling? It is a village at the end of the world - people are close, thriving on news and gossip, especially in the cold and dark hours of winter. 

When he pulls into the driveway of the laundromat his knuckles are white around the steering wheel; when he steps out of the car and lights a cigarette his fingers are slightly shaking. Peter’s eyes are strangely dark on him, watching from the other side of the hood. He looks small and unfamiliar in the black toque. 

“I’ve got no money.” Stiff, shoulders hunched - not only from the cold, Killian is sure. 

“Tell Brigitte I’ll pay for the call.” 

Peter nods and licks his lips; they are chapped again. A sign of nervousness Killian hasn’t seen for days now, so he rounds the old pick up before he can stop himself (not that he would have wanted to) and slides his fingertips over the cold back of Peter’s hand - skin smooth and thin over breakable bones. The touch only lasts one breath, but it’s enough. For both of them. Then the boy leaves, strolls over to the bar across the street and Killian unloads the laundry bag from the backseat. 

Neither looks back, watches the other go. It’s futile and unnecessary. It’s not what they are.

(Although neither of them knows what they are - but have they ever?) 

He finishes his cigarette and then enters the laundromat to greet old Mrs. Cassidy and drop off their dirty laundry. 

 

The aisles of the supermarket are almost empty: a few local youths - probably around Peter’s age or younger - linger in the small section that holds the liquors, whispering and quietly debating their chances to trick the cashier. There are the usual truckers stocking up their supplies before hitting the road again the next morning. Apparently he’s lucky, because he can’t spot anyone he knows. 

It’s foolish to think like this but he’s sick of explaining himself to people who could never understand. 

Strolling along the shelves, he automatically loads his shopping cart (rice, pasta, canned goods, coffee, tea, dried herbs): everything he usually buys. And then he adds the things he doesn’t buy normally… honey, nutella, earl grey, raspberry cookies. 

It should feel strange, but it doesn’t. It’s almost natural. 

Almost as natural as turning around when he hears fast but soft steps behind him and then a small laugh - amused and relaxed. 

“You look ridiculous with that,” Peter gestures towards the cart. 

“Well, then maybe you should wheel it.” 

But his dare goes unnoticed and Peter only tosses a bag of chips onto his pile of goods. 

“Where do they store the toiletries? I need some shower gel.” 

“Third aisle to the left I think.” 

‘ _Although I don’t mind you smelling like me._ ’

Peter’s legs look longer and more slender underneath his big sweater: there’s a lightness to his steps that wasn’t there before. Or maybe Killian is just imagining things, maybe it’s just due to the lack of snow. Then the boy is around the corner and for a few short seconds the familiar feeling is back - the sickening unease mixed with the twisted disgust because of his lack of guilt. 

(He knows the way those legs wrap themselves around his waist, knows their warmth and their demanding weight and he likes this knowledge.) 

Peter was right: Killian’s not a good person. He’s selfish and sick- and weak, because he can so easily brush it away and walk after him, watch him wandering through the alleys, slow and languid, the way he always does when he’s aware of Killian’s eyes on him. It’s less obvious now, less provoking, hidden under winter clothes, but it’s there ~~and it’s for him and he likes it~~. 

A raised eyebrow, a lingering stare - making sure Killian is still with him. Fingertips brushing absently over packages with shampoo, soap, lady products - a playful, daring smile when they slow down and pause over the small array of lube and condoms. A pink tip of teasing tongue while they dance over the few black and gold packages and tubes. 

And then again the laughter - the same as before - telling Killian his reaction wasn’t as indifferent and neutral as he would’ve liked. 

“Don’t worry, I already got some from the vending machine in Brigitte’s bar.” 

Peter appears pleased, so open and happy when Killian stops in front of him and grabs his wrist that he doesn’t know if he should smile or frown. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Of course...” he turns fully around, stands in front of him and carelessly drops the shower gel into the trolley; the chips crunch under the abrupt weight, but neither of them startles, both too distracted with the sudden closeness to even register it. 

And then Peter stretches with the slow and bored laziness of a cat, lifts himself onto his tiptoes and leans over the corner of the shopping cart that separates them to whisper into his ear. It must look kind of romantic, the way they are standing - in the middle of an almost empty supermarket, under bright neon lights, the newest happy-go-lucky country pop song (thankfully Christmas and all those obnoxious jingle-jangle songs are behind them) playing from the speakers, their faces meeting over the small barrier almost sweet and innocent. 

“... you know I hate those things.” 

Breath tickles his earshell, his cheek, warm and soft. And then lips slide over his stubbled cheeks, stealing the kiss from the corner of his mouth. 

Innocent and sweet. A clashing contrast to the words that still ring warmly in his mind when Peter turns away and starts walking over to the chilled goods. 

Killian ~~dreaded~~ suspected that it would be easy to fall in love with him again, but it’s even easier than he ever thought. 

He catches up with Peter, who pauses in front of the ice cream and doesn’t even look up when he steps to him. His hair is messed up on the back of his head, still a bit shorter than he is used to, but he reaches for the familiar Moose Tracks package, giving him a short smile, raising his eyebrows in a questioning arch. 

‘ _Do you remember?_ ’

As if he could ever forget. 

“Yeah, of course, I could never get rid of the stains on the carpet.” 

“I know…” 

Something changes in Peter’s face; his eyes turn darker, the line of his lips hardens; he puts the ice cream back onto the shelf and closes the door again. 

Killian hands him some packages of frozen meat and fish, the raspberries he knows Peter would want and he accepts them without any complaints. He doesn’t turn away, doesn’t look away, just walks alongside him to the cashier. 

The sudden quiet is strange and distracts him while he asks Megan about her New Year’s Eve and her daughter’s progress on the guitar. When he introduces Peter as a former neighbour’s son and former student (nothing but the truth) she tries to engage him in casual small talk while he boxes away their purchases and answers with curt sentences. Killian can see the slight distrust in her open face, mixed up with hurt, quickly covered up with her usual friendliness when she wishes them a nice weekend. 

They make it to the car in the same stilted silence, with Peter so distant and just _barely_ there that it tugs on his insides. While he refills his gas and walks into the station to pay he’s distracted, anxious even - but not like before in the supermarket (nervous that someone would see them or ask the wrong questions) - more like something has happened and he didn’t realize it and now their fragile peace shows fissures and fractures again. 

Greg updates him about a heavy accident on the second day after Christmas during which a truck crashed through the guardrail and into the River. The clearing work took more than two days and apparently cost him many customers during the holidays. Killian tries his best to nod sympathetically and fight against the edginess, answers Greg’s questions in the same way Peter did earlier and claps him on the shoulder before paying and heading back towards the pick up. 

Peter doesn’t notice him when he returns, doesn’t even look up, too busy with a crumpled sheet of paper in his hands. Only when he closes the door behind him and throws the ice cream bar into his lap does he lift his head, not in the least surprised to find Killian. 

Without any haste he folds the note and tucks it away in his back pocket (a jerking movement of his hips). Everything seems so calculated and controlled that for a few seconds he feels foolish for all his worries and concerns. But then Peter smiles, a gesture that is totally spontaneous (not even he could fake it) that Killian answers it, relief washing over him. 

The scent of caramel and vanilla fills his nostrils, the small cracking of the milk chocolate coating and the almost soundless sigh of Peter taking a first hesitant bite… sets him back in time. Another place, another life. 

Another _him_.

And for the first time he’s not bitter about it. 

The darkness is utterly perfect now, a navy ink of turbulent grey clouds - peacefully illuminated by the white snow and the yellow headlights of his car. The mellow voice of Elliott Smith is a velvet warmth that surrounds them with comfort and endlessness. Makes both of their words unnecessary and redundant. All the questions between them, the various and complex emotions… 

They both are perfectly aware of them - raw and aching like an open wound just covered with a thin and gauzy veil of a bandaid. 

But the tension is too frail to test again, to fight or to face reality. So they choose silence. 

They choose melting ice cream and sugary fudge, guitar sounds and melancholic lyrics. They choose not to look at each other but at the road ahead of them, the time disappearing behind them, the millions of seconds they can never undo. 

 

Pepper and Salt greet them with their enthusiastic affection, all wagging tails and cold noses pressing against thighs and knees before Peter heads out for their usual round towards the lake. It doesn’t feel like buying time - it feels good. Normal. 

(But it doesn’t scare him.)

Therefore he starts preparing dinner, chopping onions and bacon, frying them with eggs and some bread in an extra pan; every now and then he licks over his lips and wonders about the novel sweet taste he finds there. 

When the door opens it’s of course Salt who’s the first one at his side again, black fur icy from the cold outside, dashing past him on the way to the corner with their bowls. Old Pepper follows later as usual, calm and dignified, her long cocker ears wet and her fur messy from the towel Peter used to rub her dry. And then he can feel the chill radiance - just milliseconds before freezing lips kiss his bare neck and cool arms embrace him. The contrast to the hot flicker of tongue sliding downwards his spine as far as the collar of his shirt allows, the tingling fingertips that have found a way underneath… is distracting and overwhelmingly good. 

“I want you to switch that off, turn around and kiss me.” 

Killian… stops breathing. 

They are not the people they were before. They are still not the ones they haven’t been before. They are stumbling through pictures of a past and future that never was, trying to find their way to a present that could have been and never was ~~because it was the wrong time and place and he ran away~~. 

And when he turns and kisses Peter it still tastes sweet like caramel and cool like ice cream and Peter’s body feels strong and confident against his. The ashen hair smells of frost and stars when he peels himself away to set up the table. 

“How did it go?” 

There’s no need to explain.

“Better than expected. I can be very persuasive when I need to be. You knew that once.”

No need. 

“They won’t find us.” Peter looks convinced; he laughs when he holds his doubtful eyes. There is a quiet chink as he places the fork on the porcelain too hastily. “They are my parents; they are too busy to care. You know them.”

He doesn’t move, not even when Peter starts shoveling scrambled eggs and toast onto their plates. The food hot and steaming, butter melting on the golden slices of bread, glittering on his upper lip - unconcerned and carefree, he licks it clean while Killian wishes he could feel like this again. ~~Young and recklessly wild~~. 

Finally, he sits down. They eat in the same silence that stretched between them in the car at first - strangely comfortable and yet also tense and crisp; tender and easily breakable. 

Time doesn’t move fast this evening. Drips like honey - slow and chewy, warm and golden. 

 

Later in bed Peter’s body is soft and pliant (like the very first time) as it settles beside his - not close enough to take away his breath, but too close to not be absolutely aware of him. Their knees are touching when feet slide between and over his. Head cradled on his elbow, he watches Killian with casual but thorough interest; the fingers of his left hand wander idly through almost black hair, over the heat of his neck and the fabric of his sleeping shirt until they rest on his upper arm, drawing circles over his hidden scar underneath. 

“Why here?” 

He doesn’t look up at first, tries to make sense of the question and then why Peter needs to know or why he has never asked before. Only when Peter asks again and tightens his grip around his arm does Killian answer, not raising his gaze, index and thumb rubbing the corner of the next page, taking comfort in the texture of the aged paper. 

“I don’t know.” It’s true, he doesn’t. “I never meant to end up here.”

“You wanted to get even farther away.” 

“Yes.” 

The hand is grabbing him so tight now that it almost aches, forcing him to meet his eyes, to see the emotions in Peter’s face. But there are none… all deeply hidden again. Just thoughtfulness and contemplation. 

“I… I wanted to feel nothing and there was so much inside me. I wanted to suffer and grieve… and I wanted to be empty and cold.”

“You wanted to punish yourself.”

The fingers are relentless - a stark contrast to the softness in Peter’s face. It’s this expression and not the cruel gesture that makes his chest go tight, his breath catch in his lungs so that he’s unable to speak ~~to admit it~~. 

(But it’s futile anyway. Peter knows.)

“And you wanted to punish me… for not leaving you alone? For distracting you? Or for falling in love with me?” 

Killian wants to look away. It would be easier. But it has been easy all this time, easier than he deserves… And this is Peter. He never could hide from him - not two years ago, not now. 

So he nods. 

(It feels like a confession.)

And Peter releases him. 

Smiles. 

The grasp turns into a lingering caress again, idle drawings of letters and numbers and signs, tingling and tickling through the thin layer of cotton. 

(It feels like absolution.)

Soothing and distracting at the same time, but not as much as his thoughts, so instead of reading for himself he starts aloud, needs the concentration to overcome the raging unease in his stomach, the heaviness of emotions. He needs to fall into that tranquil and almost meditative mood where his eyes slide over words and sentences, forming and retelling a story, quiet like the mumbling of a small stream, relentless and peaceful at the same time. Killian knows Peter loves this, has always loved this His eyelids flutter closed - lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones - his breathing and the movements upon his arms slow down. 

When he has finished the chapter and reaches for the small desk lamp, Peter opens his eyes and shakes his head. 

Hair tousled, shirt wrinkled and imprints of the cushion on his cheek, he looks wide awake, watching him… searching for something in his face. 

“This is really your home.” It’s an observation, but Peter makes it sound like a question. “I didn’t believe you at first… but seeing you here, seeing you today, I realized you weren’t lying, didn’t just talk yourself into this because you wanted it to be true.”

Killian shifts, turns onto his side. The movement allows a cold breeze to sneak under their blankets and he can see the slight shiver that runs through Peter’s body. The hand brushing over that certain spot on his arm slides down, falls back onto the cushion between them - fingertips twitching a final time as if they miss the warmth of his skin. Then he tucks the covers down again, beds his head on the arm draped over his now closed book. 

“How did you come to this conclusion?” 

Peter’s bare feet caress over his covered shins and calves, leaving a faint trail of winter behind. The shadows on his face are soft, his eyes darker, the lashes even more so. 

“The way you acted in town. The way you talked with the cashier and the woman in the laundromat. You looked at them as if you’re seeing them, as if you _care_. Or maybe it was the way you talked _about_ them. Without any sarcasm or the disinterest you put up with the folks in our neighbourhood.” He shrugs: a strange gesture, because Peter seldom lacks the ability to express observations and opinions. And also a strange gesture because he’s lying on his side, the fingers of his left hand crawling back to rest upon Killian’s biceps, painting faint invisible circles that seep through the fabric and ignite a tingling cool fire. 

“You want to be _here_. You don’t want to be anywhere else.”

The words are low, flat ~~without any emotion if it wasn’t for the tiny tremor of sadness and hurt~~. 

“Even when Milah was still alive you never looked like this; so comfortable and content.”

Hearing the name is strange… unexpected. Because no one ever spoke it aloud in these walls, because this place was unblemished by her presence or his memories of her. Because Peter almost never spoke of her, as if mentioning her name meant bringing her back to life.

“You never belonged there.” 

Killian lies in silence, watches him biting his lips, almost unsure and hesitant - anxious about his own reaction. 

Because the pain never comes. Or at least it doesn’t hit him like an overwhelming and excruciating wave of loss as before. It’s just. There. Soft and steady. Unchangeable but bearable. 

The small circular touches on his arm stopped a while ago. Even his breathing has slowed down until his chest becomes tight with the absence of oxygen, his heart beats faster. When he decides to speak his voice is raspy and he has to stop to inhale deeply before he’s able to - the raging sound of blood in his ears almost drowning out his own words. 

“I never intended to stay here… but they never asked who I was. They cared and yet they didn’t. I liked it. And while I waited for the urge to drive on I found a job, the cabin and the dogs. I settled in. It just happened… Maybe because I didn’t even plan for this to be home.”

His fingers find Peter’s, cold and clammy, slender and stiff like frozen twigs. They twitch when he clasps them into his hands. The boy looks so young again ~~and he still remembers feeling bad and guilty and everything but now there’s nothing left of those emotions~~. Their legs are entwined underneath the blankets, one hooked over his, keeping him in place and a bony knee that presses between his thighs - a visceral gesture, not meant to tease or arouse. The soft cotton of sweatpants add an innocence and intimacy to their touch. 

“All I wanted was a place to hide and forget.”

“Milah, or me?”

Exhaling slowly, Killian rubs his thumb over the tender and tenuous skin of Peter’s knuckles. His eyelids are paper thin and violet, frail and fragile when he looks down. Lashes dark and tired. (When was the last time Peter couldn’t look at him?) 

“Both of you, I guess. Her death and your life.” 

They tickle against his lips when he presses a short kiss upon them. 

“Did it work?” 

His laugh is dry and sharp, full of sarcasm. Full of honesty. 

“No.” 

When Peter finally raises his face and meets his eyes again it’s without mockery and satisfaction. There’s no surprise or gratification. It’s just Peter’s gaze; pale green eyes that are strangely patient and ageless. The smile is small - soft and pleased. The lips are warm when they kiss him. Warm and full. 

 

___

_There was light in the kitchen when he turned into the driveway of the small house: the warm hue of the spotlights he had installed underneath the cupboards just two weeks before Milah died. Bright and so very noticeable in the blue shade of advancing night._

_Gravel scrunched under the tires of his old Centurion and the green scent of wet grass and climbing roses surrounded him as soon as he got out of the car. As he unloaded the paper bags with groceries and the bulky guitar case from the back seat, his gaze wandered to the house. The insidious emptiness that had sat in his stomach the whole time returned with a more pressing unease - like a tiny, nocturnal rodent. Gnawing its way through his organs, prospering with a sickening thickness._

_It tasted of falseness._

_Took away his breath._

_Everything_ was _so very wrong._

_And maybe it had never been right - even before. Maybe he had just suppressed it because it had felt so good while it lasted that he made himself believe in things he didn’t believe in. Never had and never will._

_The white gate leading to the front yard still smelled faintly of paint, the handle freshly cleaned and polished, smooth and warm underneath his palm from the summer day. He would have to water Milah’s herbary; the leaves of basil and lemon balm were flappy and exhausted, the peppermint lacking its typical dark green colour and displaying an unnatural shade of grey._

_But first he longed to change into more comfortable and cosy clothes, to wash his hands and neck of sweat and dirt._

_Peter lay on the living room floor, his back to Killian, bathing in the light of the tripod floor lamp, skimming through a huge book. He was clad only in boxers and his typical white tank top, shins in the air, feet bobbing in perfect sync with the characteristic tremolo melodies of Jeff Beck. He didn’t raise his head or show any sign that he had noticed Killian’s presence, even though there was no doubt that he had heard the old car or the turning of the key in the lock, or spotted him from the corner of his eye while he put down his purchases on the kitchen counter._

_“Why are you here?” (He didn’t even have to fake the annoyance in his voice.)_

_“I missed you. One week can be a very long time.”_

_His feet stopped their tiny movements but Peter still kept his gaze directed onto the book in front of him._

_“Don’t be silly. What if someone saw you?”_

_“Tell them you gave me a guitar lesson..”_

_“Well-” Rummaging in the fridge to make room for the milk and the coke, he could hear Peter getting up - the soft steps of bare feet on the kitchen tiles, “then you tell me how I was supposed to give you guitar lessons while I was in New York? Or how you’re going to explain that you still can’t play anything other than “Lady in Black” despite all the lessons I gave you?”_

_Killian didn’t need to see the boy’s reaction: the impatient and exaggerated huff told him everything about the slight pout, the eyes rolling._

_“You could at least try to be more creative.”_

_The voice was mockingly sweet, the green gaze full of a nonchalance that never faltered but was fake all the same: Peter pushed himself onto the counter next to him, occasionally reaching into the paper bag and handing him eggs, bacon and, with a tiny smile, the big jar of nutella._

_“You could at least try to be discreet and not draw any unwanted attention on us.”_

_Another emphasized exhale, but attended with a short prod against his lower thigh, a fleeting brush of a thumb over the back of his hand holding the door of the fridge, and then a longer one when he finally closed it and met Peter’s eyes._

_Just in time to catch the surprise, the flash of excitement and exaltation._

__Us _._

_But maybe he had just imagined it._

_~~He hadn’t. It was real~~. _

_Then Peter grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer, opened his lips and his legs…and Killian stepped between them. They kissed easily and slowly. Not deeply and dearly. Just a kiss - languid and blissful. Arms sneaked around his shoulders, into his hair, casual and light._

_Their combined taste reminded him of snow melting on the wooden deck of Peter’s house, of warm raspberries and the sharp pain of guitar strings cutting into fingertips._

_All their kisses - familiar and yet so very new._

_Every single one of them - every time._

_The soft and subtle ones. ~~Gentle, almost~~. Like this one: without haste or urgency, without Peter’s usual zeal and enthusiasm. In perfect sync with their heat-exhausted heartbeats. _

_“How was New York?”_

_Peter whispered it against his lips; it tickled so sweetly._

_“Crowded and too hot, dirty and loud. As always.”_

_“I meant your concerts.”_

_“As always,” he repeated, and shrugged, “and I wouldn’t call them concerts. I performed in pubs and bars, not Madison Square Garden.”_

_Stepping away from Peter, he poured himself a drink; the cold liquid burned pleasantly in his throat, strong and full with flavours of gold and molten brown sugar. The stereo played a quieter song now, the melody a sharp adagio, carried by the prominent howls of the guitar. A breeze from the open doors to the backyard fanned over his skin, dried the stickiness on his neck. Killian felt his muscles relax, the tension in his shoulders evaporate. Licking the traces of honey and raspberries from the corner of his mouth, he could still recall the spot on his hips where Peter’s legs had embraced him: burning and tingling, a comforting weight._

_The boy didn’t move. He remained sitting on the counter, the fingers of his left hand splayed on the granite surface for balance, reaching out for his drink with the other one._

_“Did you meet beautiful girls?”_

_The tone was casual, almost lackadaisical, but Killian knew the bittersweet truth and suppressed the instinctive eye-roll ~~the flattered shiver running down his spine~~. _

_“Dozens,” he replied dryly._

_“Did you fuck them?”_

_“Of course. All of them.”_

_Peter paused, glass pressed against his lower lip just for a second (eyes clouded by fury, brows curled in discontent). Then he tilted his head backwards and emptied the glass with two huge sips, never leaving him out of sight while Killian carried the guitar over to the small reading corner between the kitchen and the living room; the delicate ornate tiffany lamp on the piano emanated a soft yellow light, blurring the cut lines of his shadow ghosting over white walls and the satin white surface of the instrument. The lid was open, although he was sure that he had closed it after his last lesson._

_Yet when he turned around and still found Peter’s eyes upon him he decided not to comment on this. He was not in the mood for snappy arguments and biting words. So he’d just unpacked the guitar and placed into his usual corner, next to the antique stool._

_Soft and soundless as a cat, Peter had slipped from the kitchen counter, his bare feet almost as silent when he stepped towards him but then he stopped, and instead leaned against the embrasure of the passway between the two rooms. His skin, normally so light, suddenly seemed tan compared to the pristine plaster._

_“I hate that you play for all those strangers and not for me.” His expression was unreadable. A mystery Killian sometimes longed so much to unravel and sometimes dreaded so much it left him sleepless and dreamless, awake in the middle of the night._

_Again the miniscule pout - this time not stained with fake hurt. The voice was low and muted, so very sincere and serious. So very unfamiliar without the ever present challenge and teasing, the playfulness._

_It was the reason he didn’t look away, didn’t move for a second._

_The air was heavy between them - clotted in his throat, itching and scratching with wrongness. They both could feel it settling down on their skin, covering it like the stickiness of the hot august day outside. And they both didn’t want it._

_“Pay me and I’ll play for you,” Killian said, aiming for the lightness Peter had lacked before. Loving the irritated expression on Peter’s face, the unwilling but amused petulance that immediately replaced the former vulnerability._

_There was not enough time for him to blink or breathe in. Not enough time to even realize it, because Peter was upon him in a fraction of a second; pressed against him too fast, too warm, too much. ~~Almost~~. _

_A heartbeat fluttered against his ribcage: fingers searched and slipped underneath his clothes, lips claimed his mouth, infected him with the amber drowse of whiskey and the colourful gluttony of the ice cream Peter must have eaten before._

_~~Almost~~ dirty, ~~almost~~ hot, ~~almost~~ perfect. _

_(Forbidden.)_

_Pushing against him, Peter had shoved him backwards until he collided with the edges of the slide door between the living room and reading corner. His painful gasp was swallowed immediately and desperately, wiped away from the tickling tongue that slid over his, eager and ambitious. Heat spread in his groin, radiating through his veins, making his head dizzy and needy. Underneath his hands Peter’s skin was smooth and soft, filled with summer sun; when they wandered downwards, slow and lingering, vertebrae after vertebrae like playing the piano, he arched his spine, shifted even closer in an instinctive cat-like movement. They both felt the same electrical thrill when their lower bodies met, arousal so obvious now._

_Peter’s gasp was loud and lonely when Killian finally cupped the cheeks of his ass with both hands, bringing him even closer against his rapidly growing hard on. His pupils were big and dark, eyes wide open and fixed upon him when they parted to gather their breath, lightheaded. As if his brain couldn’t handle the amount of information and emotions._

_(As if Peter had sucked every single one of them out of his lungs, his heart, his soul.)_

_Then he smiled. Leaned forward to steal more of him, to press his behind into Killian’s hands, warm and wanton._

_Sometimes Killian wished they would use words to communicate, something substantial and more precise than this mere nebulous and hazy way of frowns and fractures of smiles, of barely there pressure around their arms and the various amounts of tenderness in their touch._

_Sometimes Killian wished Peter would voice his wants and needs. And sometimes he wished he wouldn’t._

_Because his need to satisfy them scared him - the intensity in his blood, in his heart to_ fulfill _them, to just act without thinking scared him immensely._

_As if Peter had managed to reach the deepest parts of him and take a hold of his inner core. As if Peter had found a way to break him while leaving him intact, feeling safe and sound, defenseless even as he tore him apart inch after inch, drop after drop, cell after cell until he was no longer Killian, nothing but a vessel looking like him but containing nothing of his personality, will and purest soul._

_(It scared him like nothing else had before.)_

_His heart constricted. His fingers grasped more tightly. His mouth closed around the fragile tendons of Peter’s collarbone - hard and painful. The scent of sunscreen, saltiness and pure skin filled his senses, clouded them like a narcotic._

_Peter trembled in his arms, pressed against him more ardently, hips urging him on with tiny frantic circles._

_Killian didn't stop until he was ripped away and then he looked down at the boy, ~~admired~~ watched the angry red bruise form on the still strangely pale shoulder, the deep imprints of his teeth. Until he heard Peter’s bright laugh - high and _ thrilled _\- that breached the dull mist inside his brain with piercing clarity._

_Clever fingers had opened his jeans, sneaked into his boxer briefs and pulled out his erection - ~~almost~~ without him realizing it. _

_Although both of them had been still dressed they were already panting hard. Hair messed up, lips swollen and red from kissing, Peter watched him with the same fierce and coveting eagerness as before, but he caressed Killian’s cock with slow and loving touches that would’ve even felt wrong and strangely unfitting if it weren’t for the simple and so very sincere smile._

_“Killian…”_

_His lower lip seemed dry and chapped. He licked it, detaching himself and untangling the leg wrapped around Killian’s waist to allow more urgent contact - and then Peter_ really _stepped away. Left Killian leaning against the doorframe, shirt pushed up, trousers open, mouth burning - suddenly so cool and free to breathe he could count his own heartbeats echoing in his empty body. Could hear the blood coursing hot and cold inside the too small veins. Without thinking, instinctively, he pulled the boy back against him to silence the raging thoughts and feelings inside him. To kiss, hold, have him._

_Stop them. Stop him._

_“Killian…” Peter breathed it into his ear and he was not even sure if he had really said it or if he just had imagined it._

__‘Fuck me.’ __

_But it didn’t matter. He knew._

_They stumbled into the living room, towards the couch - brown velour, old and worn out. It made his back ache just seeing it, remembering the too many nights he had spent there sleeping. So he stopped, didn’t follow Peter or climbed over him; instead he got down, knelt on the rug and watched the mild and quickly covered surprise, the intake of air, the white row of teeth when the boy opened his legs for him._

_He shouldn’t find him beautiful like this. And yet. He was. Beautiful. Like this._

_So he kissed: the bony kneecaps (first the left then the right), the warm and sleek insides of his thighs (left and then right), the quivering muscles of his lower belly (tiny hairs tickling his lips). Dipped his tongue into the navel and bit down gently before licking along the waistband of the cotton boxers, enjoying the different taste there._

_Saltiness and_ skin _\- nothing else, warm and wonderful inside his mouth, the sharp scent mixed with arousal. He had to grab his own to calm himself before he could slide down the thin fabric and_ kiss, hold, have him _._

_They had never done this until now (there were so many things they had never done, so many things to discover) but he already knew he would love it. They would love it._

_Delicate and intimate. He could literally feel the rhythm of Peter’s heartbeat, raging against his tongue, fast and rapid, fluttering like a tiny nervous bird. The increasing clench of thighs placed around his shoulders, transmitting every one of his flickers, every time he hit a precious spot. The sweet gasps of astonishment from Peter, the tightening grip in his messy and sweaty hair - urging him closer, faster, deeper -_

_Until they both had to stop, their chests heaving from lack of air and aching because it was too delicate and intimate._

_Legs trembled under his hands, fingers caressed him weakly. Glassy shards of laughter and then a soundless whimper._

_Peter slipped down the couch and into his lap, rubbing frantically against him, drawing a hiss from them both when naked skin met naked skin, although it was not enough. Not enough_ skin _, not enough contact and they hurried and failed to undo the buttons of his shirt, so they just yanked off the boy’s flimsy top._

_The bruise on Peter’s collarbone was already visible, bright and red in the dim light, sore and beautiful. Just like the scratchy burns from Killian's stubble on the soft insides of his thighs._

_But when he wrapped his hands around Peter, spreading the clear liquid around the tip, his fingers were caught, pushed away - pale eyes vehement in their determination._

_“I said_ ‘fuck me’ _.”_

_His cock throbbed at those words, impatient and keen. There must have been a small part in him that protested, that was worried (at least he hoped), yet he couldn’t hear it._

_Killian fucked him. Right where they had been - in the middle of his living room, on the carpet, in front of the uncomfortable couch. Without protection, without lube besides spit and precome. With nothing but Peter’s legs draped around his waist._

_Peter watched him with thrilled rapture, clutched his shoulders, encouraged him to move faster and deeper, to fill him completely - even when Killian could perceive it was also pain and not only pleasure that forced him to tighten his grip. Nevertheless his voice was throaty, obviously tight with impatience and excitement as he reiterated his previous demands._

_Killian made love to him. Thorough and yet hasty, full of need. He pushed himself into Peter’s body the way Peter had pushed himself into his life. With a gentle force, relentless and without any resistance, like a thin and sharp needle. The heat was amazing, surrounding him, threatening to drown him. Swallowing him whole. Together with the quiet wet sounds of their bodies moving against each other, the thirsty clasp around him, their mixed scents and tastes. It was mindblowing._

_Peter pulled himself closer, brought them chest to chest, skin on skin, mouth to mouth, while meeting all his thrusts halfway, allowing Killian to slide in all the way, making them groan with relief and delight. They kissed again, messy and frantic, with teeth biting into his lower lip and hands fisting his hair._

_Neither of them looked away. He wanted to catch everything, every tiny reaction; he was desperate for it. For eyelids fluttering, torn between shutting in sheer bliss and the more pressing, overwhelming need to see._

_They made love. Deep, intense and desperate. It was breathtaking, dazzling, heartbreaking._

_It was perfect._

_After he had come deep inside Peter, they lay on the carpet, side by side, panting and sticky from sweat. Legs tangled, arms touching, ashen curls on his chest, fingers playing a gentle melody on his ribcage; every exhale of breath was a mild breeze, sending shivers of cold down his spine. Peter still smelled of salt and skin, with a spiciness underneath that was his own scent - a mixture of aftershave, asphalt and whiskey._

_Peter was soaked in his scent. ~~And he loved it~~._

_They knew they had to get up and into the shower, wash away the evidence of their union and cover themselves again. Because the normalcy of this intimacy was blinding and blazing, made them sleepy and tired, too comfortable and lazy to readjust their masks, rebuild their barriers and coolness._

_It had become harder and harder with every time they collapsed into each other, had taken them longer and longer with every day that had passed._

_Today it was a small eternity._

_Until their heartbeats calmed down and they managed to sit up, Peter wincing slightly._

_Killian didn't apologize. Not anymore. Of course he had done it the first time, the second and even the third - although in a more teasing tone, playful, challenging. Already assuming that the boy would just laugh his concerns away and mock him in return._

_‘_ Don’t worry Killian, I’m fine. The burning sting and pain…? I don’t mind it. I like it, even. Because it will remind me of you. Tomorrow when I’m at home and you’re away for those stupid lessons I will still feel you. _’_

_So Killian didn’t apologize. Instead he helped Peter to his feet. Watched him raise one eyebrow questioningly, invitingly. And he wanted to; was already about to nod, to gather up the scattered clothes from the hardwood floor when his glance fell upon the huge book Peter had been reading earlier._

_Square sized, simple black binding, the white pages yellowed from age. But, unlike he had previously suspected, it was not Peter’s mysterious book with cryptographs and drawings of alien and extinct flowers._

_It was a photo album._ His _photo album. And the small notebook was not the one in which Peter scribbled down his thoughts, interpretations or translations of the old script – it was Killian’s. Pages crinkled and partly torn, quickly written on with hasty and fleeting lyrics and poems._

_They were normally kept together in the huge wardrobe in the bedroom, hidden in the very back corner, underneath the tablecloth Milah had gotten from her parents for more festive occasions, though they'd never used it for the pale rose colour clashed with everything in their little house._

_“Where did you find this?”_

_His hand hovered over the book, not daring – not wanting to touch it. His eyes searched for Peter’s, who was still naked, standing in the middle of the room where he had left him, toes curled in the thick carpet but apart from this completely at ease, not the smallest bit nervous or conscious of his guilt._

_“I think you know perfectly well where I found it. Or have you forgotten your own hiding place?” Calmly, as if he were asking if he needed something from the supermarket._

_“No, of course not.” (He had forgotten that it existed. Or at least he_ wished _he had forgotten.)_

_“You went into my bedroom and rummaged through my belongings? You messed up the contents of my wardrobe without asking and when you found these things you didn’t think it could be something private, something no one is supposed to see? You just pulled them out and looked through them?”_

_He should have known… Peter was like this. And yet, it was like a hit right into his face, into his stomach. It took away his breath and quickened his heartbeat in a dangerous, raging way. Chagrin ~~mixed up with hurt~~ mixed up with wrath ~~mixed up with fear~~._

_“No.”_

_The boy rolled his eyes; he seemed unmoved by Killian’s increasing anger. Obviously he had given up the thoughts of a shower because he stepped into his boxers and pulled them up with a deliberate slowness that no one had perfected like him._

_“You told me I could go into your bedroom to get shirts or boxers. I didn’t mess it up, I left everything in perfect order. Also when I found those books I didn’t think it could be something private, I_ knew _it was something private. And because I_ knew _I was not supposed to see I pulled them out and started looking through them.”_

_There was a tiny sly smile playing around Peter’s mouth, the left corner slightly higher, twitching with mischief and triumph. The waistband of the boxers rode low on his hips again, his skin radiant from their sex, from Killian’s warmth and his touches._

_(He tried to ignore the twist in his stomach when he registered the glistening spots on the flat belly, between the slender legs.)_

_He wanted to respond accordingly, with a knife-like voice, cutting and hard, but it came out hoarse, thick with emotion - confusion and anger and sadness._

_“Why?” Shaking his head, he’d tried it anew. “Why are you like this? Why can’t you respect boundaries like the secrecy of letters or moral privacy? Why do you have to steal everything, to push yourself into spaces and places you’re not allowed in. Insist on rights you have no right upon?”_

_Peter looked at him, full of silent contemplation, without any sign of guilt. Stepping closer, he bent down, knelt beside Killian._

_“I’m not like this. Or at least I wasn’t. You made me like this.”_

_Their fingers touched upon an old piece of paper - the fracture of a song Killian had written long ago. Then he lifted an old photograph, colours faded with age, pale and tinted with the faint amber hue of a decade._

_“I didn’t know about how close you’ve been with your brother. I didn’t know that you got seperated when your parents had the divorce. I didn’t know that he died. I didn’t even know you had a brother.”_

_The snapshot showed two boys in a small coastal harbour in front of an old and not very seaworthy sailboat; the taller one of them bursting with pride about the huge fish they had caught, holding the elegant and glinting dead body while the smaller one was obviously busy with the ship's compass, just raising his startling pale blue eyes the moment the camera must have clicked._

_Killian felt the knife stabbing through his heart like the moment it had happened when Peter tapped with his index finger upon the announcement of death, carefully cut out of a newspaper. He was supposed to be angry about the way Peter had violated his trust, about himself because - again - he had confided too early, too easily… but everything he felt was emptiness._

_“You made me like this. You and all your evasiveness and excuses.” Peter shifted; now pressed against him, he was a warm and strangely solid presence. “All your mysteries and secrets.”_

_The words were breathed into his ear, causing an eerie shiver to run down his neck._

_“Why are you like this? Why can’t you answer my questions? Why can’t you just be honest?”_

_He sounded so sincere, so much so that Killian almost felt guilty and regretful. ~~So wounded that it almost pained him too~~. _

_But this was Peter. Peter who had intruded upon his memories and dragged them into bright daylight, ~~where he had to face them again~~. Peter who had seen them, anatomized them. _

_Peter who would never forget about them._

_His past had always been a blade, vicious and vengeful, but in the hands of this boy it would turn into the most destructive weapon._

_He got up, moving away from the sweet touch at his lower back, the lips sliding over that particular spot on his right arm. Getting away from that toxicity - although he knew it was too late._

_“You really want me to respond to this?” He asked, disbelief and bitterness mixed up with that same tiredness and resignation he had been feeling for weeks now._

_(Peter was in his veins already.)_

_“I am like this because the world has made me like this. There are no such things as reliability or security - no eternity. I can’t answer your questions because there are some things I don’t want to talk about, they are mine. And I can’t be honest because I can’t trust you! The harder you push the harder I’ll fight your attempts. Because you take and you take without even asking, you suck me dry with all your demands and claims.”_

_Killian left him. It was all he could do. It was all he had to do. If he had looked down at Peter he would have stayed and helped him up. He would have pulled him into his arms and back onto the couch. They would have kissed again, anything to not talk anymore, to forget._

_But he couldn’t._

_Peter had taken too much, too soon._

_When the boy stepped into the shower, he didn’t apologize. Of course not. (Killian didn’t expect him to.) He just grabbed his hand and the shower gel and pressed a generous amount into Killian’s palm. The green eyes were always upon him, wide open and darker than usual, framed with his thick black lashes. He didn’t blink when Killian applied the clear thick liquid upon his shoulders, sliding it over his arms and down towards his hands, over his collarbones and his chest (circling the dark bruise, catching the breath in both their throats), over the wings of his shoulderblades and his spine until they came to rest upon the curve of his backside. There had been a short moment in which he had wanted to stop Peter, to tell him to wait. Had not wanted to be with him in a confined space like this, to touch him._

_But it would have been too late. Futile._

_Hadn’t Peter proven enough times that the word ‘no’ didn’t exist for him? That there were no boundaries he respected?_

_So he allowed him to come even closer, to press against him - wondering when and how he could escape this beautiful mess, this endless disastrous dream; this sweet nightmare._

_After he had cleaned Peter with sparse and careful movements - touching him as little as possible - they stayed like this; warm water pouring over them, the only sound in the room, drowning out their breathing, filling the heavy void of their silence. Killian kept his hands by his side, marrowless and exhausted, holding himself upright and the added weight of Peter leaning against him, his head resting on his shoulder as if listening for his heartbeat. They stayed like this, breathing not aligned - his own marginally faster. His body more tense, hard lines where Peter’s was still soft and smooth, sturdy and solid where Peter’s was bony and slender. They stayed like this. Fingertips brushed over his right arm, caressing the spot that held his tattoo; the other rested on his waist, thumb writing tiny circles of comfort he didn’t need or want. Nevertheless they seeped through his skin and sank into his inner core, warming him better than the water raining down on them._

_Killian tried not to lower his head and take in the way Peter was curled against his naked chest. So trusting and vulnerable. Touching him almost completely: toes, kneecaps, thighs, hips, chest and shoulders. His hair was darker than usual, a wet shimmer- almost auburn, his breathing too light to distinguish amongst the streams of water. Eyelids closed and opened when he switched off the shower. He didn’t need to see ~~the confusion~~ the alertness in those green eyes before Peter lifted his head and watched him - not with his controlled coolness, mask in place. _

_Open. Tender. Full of something he had never seen before and couldn’t name._

_A glance like an icy fist around his heart. But unlike the many before it was not meant to hurt him, to display the iron will and brittle cunning, prove him with what he had already suspected to be only half true - one side of a coin, the shiny brilliant surface of a mirror he could never see trough._

_This time he could see._

_And it hurt him more than all those before._

_So he didn’t just desert the shower like he intended to, leaving Peter alone in there. He took a towel and handed it to the boy. Rubbed him dry - with the same sparse and careful movements he had used to clean him, mouth and throat too tight and thick with emotions to speak._

_But it was not necessary, because Peter then took his hand, guided him to his bedroom, dark and sticky for the shutters were still down, the windows closed (in his search for Killian’s memories and secrets he hadn’t bothered opening them)._

_When he pulled them up to savor the chill breeze and the bluish twilight of an early summer night he could see Peter’s jeans, skinny and torn at the left knee, lying on the hardwood floorboards, the wardrobe door left ajar._

_And he could see Peter helping himself to another pair of boxers, his skin darker and velvety like molten caramel in this strange illumination. It even tasted like that - rich and warm and overwhelmingly sweet when he kissed Killian again - thrusting his tongue so deep into his mouth, licking over the sensitive tip and the insides of his teeth._

_Killian hadn’t forgiven him. ~~Maybe he never would~~. _

_They both knew it._

_But with Peter’s body pressing him back into the cushions, covering him like a heavy blanket, it was so easy to forget._

_As easy as forgetting that this was the first night in weeks he’d spent in his bed instead of the couch in the living room._

_Killian froze. He wanted to protest, to sit up, to leave and be uncomfortable in this room again… But he couldn’t. The pain was gone - narrowed to a slight but bearable burn in the left side of his chest where Peter placed his head again. Legs tangled with his, shins brushing, hand hiding the tattoo, lips ~~that had just kissed him~~ tickling. _

_They didn’t fall asleep like this. It was too early, not even 11pm, the sounds coming from the yard lulling and quieting the stressed rhythm of blood in their veins: crickets and the only sound of a nightingale sitting in the old plum tree, rustling leaves and the distant trickle of Mr. Smith’s lawn sprinkler. Normal and familiar._

_Even when in this night_ nothing _was normal and familiar anymore._

_Because Killian hadn’t spent a night in this bed since the beginning of May. And now he was lying there… with a teenage boy from his neighbourhood, after they had made love on the carpet in the living room, after this boy had detected his thoroughly hidden past._

_They didn’t fall asleep like this. Spread out on the duvet, clad only in boxers: his skin tingling from the cool breeze that played with the full-length curtains and the contrary sensations of Peter’s warmth. When Killian looked down he found him still awake, staring into the darkness, watching the billowing white curtains - the shadows less sharp, eyes less intense, clouded with dark lashes._

_They didn’t fall asleep like this._

_They never slept that night. They just. Lay there. Together and yet still detached. Alone while feeling the other breathing, hearing his heartbeat, kissing his hair or skin. Without speaking a word they waited for time passing by; the slow and relentless approaching tomorrow, the fast and equally relentless vanishing yesterday._

_Because some things were inevitable.  
_

___

**End Chapter 04**

Thanks for reading ♥


	5. Chapter 5

Hello dearies,

finally the last chapter! And since this was supposed to be a Christmas story at least I managed to post the final chapter appropriately.  
Sorry it took me so long to post it, but it took a lot of time editing it and I admit I was always kind of lazy for I hate editing… so I always postponed it for other more exciting things.  
I’m so happy there are still a few people who care about that pairing and who grew to like this story, every fav and every comment is dear to me!  
Basically this story was just another excuse to write about the things I love very much: winter, snow, the polar circle and two people suffering under the weight of their emotions and making the other suffer because they love him so much ^.^  
I’ve never been to Canada or the US and english is not my mother tongue, so if there are still some mistakes in my descriptions or my english, I am the only one to blame because [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) did everything to eradicate them and did an amazing beta job as always. The story would not even be half as good without all her effort and patience and constant encouragement. 

I hope you like this chapter and enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing the whole story!

Merry Christmas,  
Cai

 

**End of the earth**

 

**Chapter 05**

 

“Don’t even think about it.” 

It is a small and almost inaudible whisper. The voice flat and indifferent, hiding true emotions. 

A thread. 

Killian turns around, bearing a question on his lips he lacks the time to express because Peter nods towards the road sign that announces the distance to the city and the airport - and now he understands. 

Wanting to protest, to deny, he shakes his head, laughs out loud; a dry and sarcastic sound at first, then more amused and honest than angry. Any possible trace of annoyance disappears immediately after he spots the initial hint of confusion in Peter’s expression, then quickly followed by relief because of his exhilaration. 

“I really didn’t,” Killian promises, taking his hands from the steering wheel for two short seconds to raise them in an indignant gesture of innocence. “Besides, what did you expect me to do? Pull up in front of the entrance and drag you towards the ticket counter to buy you a ticket to New York? Assuming I would manage all that without drawing the attention of every security guard in the airport upon us, how was I supposed to get you onto that plane? And stop you from immediately escaping from it?” 

He still laughs, picturing it. Laughs because Peter is smiling too. 

One of those rare smiles he'd longed for: Controlled and also kind of cool - but a real, small twitch. 

Then Peter leans forward and opens the glove department, searching through the pile of maps, sugar packets from Pine Creek's only cafe, pills for headaches and all the other junk Killian keeps there. The frown is clearly visible even from the corner of Killian’s eyes when the boy finds the stripe of condoms that has been there since probably forever. He flinches but Peter doesn’t comment, and so he keeps silence. 

Choosing one of the few CDs stored there and putting it into the player, he leans back in the passenger seat, deep and more comfortable. The soft frisky piano intro fills the car, followed by the husky signature voice of Nina Simone whispering poetry about her lover’s hair. Peter’s left hand comes to rest upon the gear shift between them, the other one playing with the sleek black packages he has pulled out - idle and still with the same smile like before; calm and contemplative. 

But Killian feels strangely qualmish and restless at this sight. Only starts breathing in freely when Peter finally puts the condoms back into the glove department and shuts the plastic door with a harsh click. 

The road is quite empty, as all the roads are here so far up in the north: covered with ice like the road to Pine Creek but wider, suited for the huge trucks delivering groceries and technical equipment to the city and the smaller settlements along the River and at Beaufort Sea. The trees alongside the road have given way to crippled and snow loaded bushes, misshapen and bulky sculptures of white, barely reaching for the pinkish sky that changes from soft warm watercolour hues to slightly cooler shades of blue just above the horizon. No clouds diminish the breathtaking rainbow of colours, only the pale whitish moon. 

“Why did you never ask me about how I found you?” 

Maybe Killian has already expected that question because he is not surprised. Not as much as he should be. Maybe he knows Peter too well to not have expected it. 

“I don’t know. I don’t want to _know_ ,” he replies. Too quickly, too curtly to be anything but hostile. Shoving away Peter’s hand, he places his own on the stick to shift down a gear when the road climbs a smaller hill. 

That question - and the possible answers - has been a constant on his mind the first days after the boy’s arrival - a never ending crescendo of increasing unease and tension. He has wanted to ask about it, to trace Peter’s steps back to the eastern coast… the sheer impossibility of finding him here. 

~~At the end of the world~~. 

However the _possibility_ of finding this out… he was not ready then. Perhaps he never would be. 

“Oh, but it’s a good story, very exciting and funny.” Peter’s voice is light and bright. Exhilarated. 

“Not for me.” 

“But it is for me. You know I love talking about you.” 

“You mean you love talking and tormenting me.”

“I love seeing your raw feelings.” 

Killian almost startles when cool fingertips touch the back of his hand, tracing the veins underneath his skin. Peter watches him - he can feel it. 

“You love the power you think you are still holding over me. And maybe you’re right… and you really have power over me; always did and always will.” The confession is painful; however it slips from his mouth so easily. As easy as breathing. 

Even when Peter’s presence is taking away all his breath. (Some things never change.) 

“I have no power over you. I would have never allowed you to run away from me in the first place.” 

The simplicity and naturalness of that statement fills him with a suffocating, thrilling bliss and with the blinding feeling of anxiety because no one should love another person like this ~~and especially not him~~. 

(Just like the first time over two years ago.)

“You make it seem like I am nothing more to you than deviation, a rare subject you watch underneath a microscope.” 

“You are so much more to me, Killian, you know that. I would have never traveled that far for anybody else. I would have never taken that much effort upon me.” Peter licks his lips - he doesn’t have to see it, he can hear it in the short stretch of time that passes between two breaths, he knows it, because he knows Peter better than almost anyone he has ever known before. 

“So, ask me. Ask me how I found you.” 

Killian clenches his teeth: to oppress all those emotions, the anger. His fingers upon the gear shift are so tense they almost hurt and when Peter touches him again, it takes much of his control to not jerk away. The air is filled with their pent up pugnacity, thick enough to clog their veins. 

“I am not interested.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

“You seem to forget that I already know what you’re going to tell me.”

“But I don’t know how you’re going to react.” 

Peter sounds partly amused and partly annoyed. Completely attuned with his bored and yet impatient expression. Smug and eager. 

(Killian is so used to this and still it never ceases to amaze him.)

But buried underneath is so much more: darkness, cruelty or sadness. It’s ~~almost~~ disturbing. 

“I can’t.” (Because this sentence - this confession - saved him before… so long ago.)

They pass another sign - the distance to the airport has now shrunk to fifteen miles. He’s aggravated. Peter’s silence is huge and heavy just like the weight of his gaze, judging him, obviously expecting him to change his mind. But he doesn’t say anything and neither does Killian. 

Nevertheless he is sure that this is not the end. Peter is right; he’s not the type to forget about things (unlike him). So Killian won’t make the mistake of dropping his defenses or relaxing too early. Not even when they pass the junction to the airfield. A tiny part of him almost ~~hoped~~ expected the boy would speak up, demand for him to turn left - that all this was nothing but an act of revenge. Finding him and hurting him, leaving him and hurting him even more. ~~Just like he did~~. 

(But not this time.) 

“I want you to pull over.” 

And when he doesn’t:

“Pull over.”

“I can’t pull over on the highway just because you want me to.” Killian replies, voice stained with the same searing edge like Peter’s. “There’s a lay-by, I think, maybe ten miles ahead.” 

They make it there in a silence that’s louder than every song on the stereo. Fingers curled around his on the gear shift, green eyes never brushing over him. A strange feeling of lonesomeness. 

The lay-by is small, precisely big enough to hold one of the long trucks with their trailers. Now in winter it is even smaller; huge hills of dirty snow making it almost unrecognizable and easy to miss even for someone who knows it’s there. He doesn’t kill the engine: Peter shed his coat as soon as it was comfortably warm in the car after they left Pine Creek behind. His hand feels cold: the warm fingertips are no longer touching it. Taking a long, slow breath, he finally turns around and faces Killian, wordless and cool. Inwardly braced, he waits for the harsh impact, the deep stab with the weapon that is the boy’s tongue. 

“Ask me,” Peter reiterates, voice so flat and empty and robotic - he’s in emotional turmoil, so invisible for everyone except Killian. 

But it feels too much like losing. 

“I can’t talk about it.” 

He doesn’t know… perhaps it’s the sadness in his voice, the regret. Or perhaps it’s his hand seeking to touch him, to feel the stiff skin and bones of Peter’s shoulders, to soak up the warmth; the familiar vulnerability and unyielding fibreglass. 

Peter flinches under his fingers, jerks away and slips out of the car in one smooth movement, so elegant and swift it only leaves Killian staring at the place he was sitting just five seconds before, mouth filled with a strange taste of iron. 

“You make me sick.” 

Then the door is closed and Peter is gone. Killian’s face tingles from the cold that has filled the empty space he has left behind. 

It takes his body another five seconds to realize what it has to do. Reaching through the gap between the seats to get Peter’s ridiculous down jacket - sleek and so light - pulling the key from the ignition and hitting the warning flasher, he follows him, breathing curses and worries. 

Peter has already climbed the small mounds of snow guarding the parking slot, pushed his way through frozen-hardness, the surface crystalline and abrasive like shards of glass. But it’s exhausting to walk in thigh high snow, even more exhausting to run and Peter has not gotten very far. Between the small pines it only reaches to the knees, making it easier to walk, yet instead of moving faster he slows down, just heads on without assurance that Killian follows him. 

If this was some childish display of defiance he would have stayed in the car and waited. He would have smoked a cigarette and raised the volume of the stereo. With temperatures below 20 degrees it wouldn’t have taken long for anyone to come back, especially without any coat or jacket. 

Nevertheless this is about more, something deeper and darker. Something he has said and done. Something he has to _undo_. 

Because this is not some childish act. This is _Peter_. Peter is teasing, taunting and terrible truth. To gain his goals he would do everything: neglect pain and physical needs, spill blood and freeze himself to death. There are no boundaries he wouldn’t cross, no bridges he wouldn’t burn. 

So he quickens his steps, using the lonesome fresh path. He doesn’t call out, doesn’t hesitate until he can grasp the shoulder (bony underneath his pullover and shirt) and stop him. Pulls him against his chest, feels the throbbing heartbeat for too short moments until Peter breaks away from him again, leaving nothing behind but a trace of skin and fresh lemony shampoo. 

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps. Trembling and breathing harshly, reddish angry spots on his cheekbones, he looks very much like the child he still is and Killian can’t do anything but obey. (This is not about him, it’s about Peter.) Raising his hands defensively, he should probably feel weak and angry, humiliated that a teenage boy is ordering him around - but he can’t. 

His fault, his guilt. 

“I won’t, I promise.” Although everything in him longs to. Peter is so young. Too young to act so composed and grown up all the time. Seeing him so agitated and so desperate to display that much fear and distress is new and disturbing. He feels helpless and also strangely powerful. 

(Disgusting.) 

Peter looks at him; pale face, pale eyes - arms crossed in front of his chest, he refuses to take the jacket from him; teeth buried in his plush lower lip, painting it white. 

“What do you want from me? We both know what you’re going to tell me and we both know there’s nothing I can say, no way to apologize, nothing I can do to change it… So why do you want me to dig up more things from my past when you know I don’t want to talk about them? When you know they’re going to hurt me again?” 

“Because it’s hurting _me_. All those events in the past...? They are hurting me. _You_ are hurting me. Every time you flinch and evade my questions. Every time you look away. With all your secrets and mysteries! It drives me crazy! You said you love me, but you don’t even trust me... Or was it a lie after all?”

Killian’s mouth is suddenly dry. His whole body a wasteland of all his wrong decisions. 

“No. It wasn’t. Not the night I said it nor the time I confirmed it. It was the truth. I loved you and I trusted you. The reason I don’t talk about my past is because it is _my_ past, _my_ life. There is nothing for you to know about,” he shakes his head in disbelief. “We’ve talked about this before… Why don’t _you_ trust me?” 

Peter snorts. Full of contempt. 

“Besides, I thought you like secrets and mysteries?”

“I like _unravelling_ them.”

“Well congratulations then. Obviously you unravelled mine because otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” 

“No… No, I wouldn’t.” 

When he takes a smallish step towards Killian, Peter shows a smile - almost as tentative and tiny as the movement that brings him closer. He is not sure if he’s alleviated or devastated about both. _Peter’s closeness has always been his weakness and that smile his destruction_. 

(Because he looks so honestly happy and pleased that he has found him, that he is here ~~with him~~.)

He shouldn’t smile like this. He should be appalled. 

“You have my past and my present. So now you only need my feelings and then you’re happy?” 

“Yes, Killian.” 

This is Peter; no boundaries, no bridges. Everything. To the blood, to the bone, to the deepest, darkest core. He takes and takes everything. Killian knows that; learned it the hard way two years, three weeks, five seconds ago.

“How did you find me?” 

Losing has never been so sweet, so beautiful as this smile - thrilled and radiant and as cold as the end of the earth. 

“It was your car… Your stupid vintage Buick Centurion. Didn’t I always tell you it’s too flashy? Too easily recognizable?” 

Of course, he did. Killian remembers. 

“Maybe I would’ve let this drop, maybe I wouldn’t have been able to follow your traces if it weren’t for that car and the sweet, charming old lady working at the counter of the car dealer you sold it to. You must have made quite an impression because she remembered a lot about you. Or maybe it was just the fact that you had all your belongings with you and that she spotted a huge amount of Canadian dollars in your wallet when you paid her to make some copies of your passport.” 

“That… She was not supposed to give informations about her clients out.” He feels stupid and betrayed, but also not - too much time has passed. It doesn’t matter anymore. (Peter is here.) 

“It was so easy. I told her some sappy story about my bigger brother whom my parents kept away from me and whom I desperately wanted to get to know and she spilled everything - almost broke out in tears. She even got me copies of your passport. Funny how two letters change a name completely and how much easier everything went with your real name, Killian _Jones_.”

Averting his gaze won’t change anything, so Killian doesn’t; he stares right back into Peter’s face. Eyes like glass, lashes already covered with white, he looks less pale than before, but treacherous like ice. For a short moment Killian can see the hurt (clearly there for him to see) before Peter overwrites it with his mocking laughter. 

“Actually it was almost too easy. Finding your father, your mother, your friends… learning about Emma or your brother’s terrible accident on the oil platform in the Beaufort Sea. Before that it had seemed like trying to decipher a book written in code without any clue of the passphrase- and then I did not only get a clue, but the whole fucking passphrase and suddenly everything was cleartext and I could finally read it all.” 

Against his will, Killian snorts. He cocks his head, doesn’t dare to move - their equilibrium still seems too fragile, too precious to destroy it.

“That’s a nice picture. How very articulate considering your fondness of secrets and mysteries.” 

“What were you so afraid of? Of Milah finding out about your past or your past following you and destroying your future with Milah?” 

Peter takes one step towards him. Snow crunches under his feet, a quiet and comforting sound. (The sound of loneliness.) Again the scent of lime comes when he leans back to have a better look at his face. Almost eagerly observing his lips, obviously expecting more lies. 

(He has always thrived upon the boy’s undivided attention on him.)

“Maybe you should tell me? You think you know everything? So go on, tell me.” 

“You ran away, you changed your name… but I think you were aware that no one would follow you after everything you did. They wouldn’t try to follow you. They wouldn’t even miss you. They would be happy that you left.” 

Peter’s voice is airy, disguising the heavy sickness of his words. 

“So Milah didn’t know?” (Urging.)

“No.” 

“You lied to her all the time?” (Merciless.)

“Yes.” 

“She didn’t learn about your parents? Your brother? Your son?” (Words biting deep like whippings.) 

Lying is so tempting right now, would be so easy. But this is Peter - not one of his meddlesome previous neighbours, his curious co-workers. Or Milah. Sweet, trusting, caring Milah ~~who was so in love with him, who was so easy to beguile~~. 

“No.” 

For the first time, Peter’s expression changes - into something warm and almost fond. Almost impressed, but definitely enamoured. Killian wants to turn around- nobody should ever look at him like this. 

“Did you blatantly lie or did you just not tell her anything?” 

It makes him furious ~~and it also frightens him~~. 

“What do you think?! Do you think I enjoyed lying about my past to someone I love?” He takes the final step that separated them and forces Peter to look up even more (the four inches he still has on him so satisfying; the line of his chin so inviting). Hating the expression of amused devotion he can still find in those pale eyes. His voice is biting and harsh in the soft white surroundings.

“I don’t know.” The boy raises his shoulders in fake exaggerated perplexity. “I don’t know anything about you I didn’t find out for myself... So yes, maybe you do enjoy it.” (Without anger, just pleased curiosity.)

“If you really think this then you don’t know me at all.” 

Maybe this was the right thing to say because Peter’s eyes get even colder, his face turns even ~~stonier~~ icier. Fingers grab his wrist so tight it immediately hurts. 

It’s comforting. The cold, the pain, the frantic beating of his blood against the narrow confinement. 

The boy doesn’t flinch when he leans closer. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. They are so close Killian can feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin. See every detail of his face. 

(There is nothing special about him.)

Against the background of snowbound pines and the pale pink sky his hair looks blonder than usual, with a warm shimmer instead of the usual ashen colour. It’s as long as ~~two years ago~~ before and with all the prominent sharp lines and edges around his mouth gone he looks ~~happy~~ healthy. The white flowers of ice blooming on the strands around his face and on his lashes underline that soft and defenseless expression that never fails to amaze but no longer manages to deceive Killian. 

(But he ~~still~~ loves him ~~again~~.)

“Then please me tell how was I supposed to tell her? How was I supposed to tell her what I did without having her turn away from me in disgust? Without having her leave me?” 

There is no answer. Of course. Peter never lies. Peter is truth. 

“You’ve been there. You’ve spoken to Emma? To her parents?” 

The only affirmation is the non-negation. 

“Haven’t they all told you what bastard I am? I bet Mr. Swan was quite happy and eager to rail against me and insult me. How I dragged his pretty little daughter down with me, infected her with my ideas of an idle and wild lifestyle so she disregarded her law studies and instead attended parties or snuck away to accompany me and the band to gigs on the weekends? How I impregnated her and then broke up with her, leaving her alone with the child because I am a reckless and irresponsible loser? Like I planned on getting the love of my life pregnant and then having her break up with me because I was not ready to be a father? How I left town and never once wrote or called or whatsoever asked about her and the child?” 

He is surprised that he’s not shouting - that he’s not angry… not even sad anymore. Maybe every emotion dies when it is oppressed long enough, every one except the scorn and the disgust. That he could walk away and never really regret it once. 

“Was Emma at least so fair to tell you that it wasn’t me who broke up with her, that we both made that decision? That I offered to pay for the child? To help her as much as I could from afar? And that she was the one who declined it?” 

Although it doesn’t matter. Never has and never will anymore. He is a bastard. Nothing he did afterwards would ever change that. But when he intends to take a step back, to retreat and bring more distance between them, the strong and relentless grip around his wrists holds him, forces him to stay. In Peter’s eyes he can’t find the usual pity and fake understanding after he had told someone while they secretly thought he was either reckless and cold-blooded or just irresponsible and scared. 

Here he can find only interest; blatant and perfectly neutral interest. And underneath… the same hidden fascination ~~and obsession~~. 

A touch that feels more like a reward than anything else. 

So wrong but so, so right. 

“I didn’t speak much to them. Why should I? I couldn’t be more indifferent about their version of this story. I am only interested in yours.” He brings his face to Killian’s: eyes darker, pupils dilated. “How many times do I have to tell you that I am only interested in _you_?” 

The kiss feels strange: out of the blue, stiff and stinging. Too sudden and too suddenly over. It lacks the usual depth and length but not the so well-known vigour and force. The remaining taste on his lips - half-diminished by the strangeness - is lukewarm mint from the boy’s chewing gum and freezing moisture. 

“You are a liar and a deceiver. You wear so many masks and hide so much… You are a riddle and I can’t read or decipher you like others. For every secret I discover I find another one. For every truth I find you tell me another lie. But I don’t care about that for I am willing and capable to do that. I found you here and I will find you again and again if I must. Because I want all of you, all your secrets, all your truths.” 

The words burn on his lips and he can’t look away from Peter’s eyes. 

“I want all your emotions and your deepest, purest thoughts. I want to peel away your disguises and uncover you. I want the boy underneath the man you are now. I want to unravel you and see you broken and naked and bleeding. And then I want to pick up the scattered pieces of your soul and put them back together.” 

“You want to change me.”

“No,” 

It’s nothing but a shadow - like icy mist breezing over his facial skin. It sounds scared, shocked.

“No, I don’t want to change you. I don’t want you anyway else. Lie, flee, hide, fight me. You won’t need to because there is not one thing about you I don’t accept, but I can endure it… I will love it even. I just want you, every whisper of bone, every drop of skin, every splatter of blood. I want to know you and everything that made you the person you are now. Your past, your present and most of all: your future.”

All these words, like a quiet breeze upon the shell of his ear. Lips tickling like spiderwebs, fingers like vines around his wrists. 

It should be frightening. But it is not. 

It’s a relief. 

When he breathes in it feels like a heavy weight has been taken from him; like it’s the first time after long hours of holding it. The first time since Peter arrived three weeks ago. Cool and scentless oxygen slides through his lungs like a blade of glass, clear and cleaning. (He feels light and very awake.)

Everything is shockingly cold and dangerous. And when he cups the sharp chin and brushes his thumbs over the ordinarily soft skin of Peter’s cheeks they are sallow and stiff. The frost that has covered the tiny hairs doesn’t even melt from his touch anymore - his fingers are too cold. Everything about Peter is freezing and Killian has to get him inside. But when Peter shakes his head and wriggles his hands deeper into his sleeves they are still warm and they can stay here just a minute longer.

They can stay in this white wasteland, hostile and deadly but so beautiful - where time slows down and nothing counts anymore. Nothing is supposed to live here and every intake of breath is the slow approach of death. Like baptism, like an absolution. The endlessness is consoling and he wants to savour it. 

So they stay. 

And breathe.  
___

 

“Your hair is getting long.” 

The voice is quietly sweet and the fingers that tangle through his hair are cool. A shiver runs down his back, but it’s soothing. Comforting. Peter’s touch always has been. Too firm and wild, too demanding and pressing (it has always made him feel wanted, accepted). Yet now they are more gentle; a slow, even tender caress - as if they have all the time in the world. It’s strange, but Peter still remembers which spot he has to brush, stroke and press, where to kiss him - he has learned so quickly and never forgotten. 

“Brigitte usually cuts it, but with the holidays and Grace’s pertussis she was too busy.” 

“I like it.” 

Arms embrace him from behind when Peter leans forward to kiss his throat, to place smallish licks upon his warm skin. Strands of ashen blond hair streaks over his cheek; tickling and teasing. The smell of lemons - the well known and weird taste of summer that always seems to cling to him ~~even here~~. 

Yet their touch ends before he can pull him closer and Peter disappears again to his task of making coffee at the kitchen counter, leaving Killian patting Salt’s big head lying on his knees. 

“What happened with all your belongings? Your records, your photo album? Milah’s stuff?” 

His mind’s eye presents him long repressed pictures. Stacks of books, the white wood of the piano, old porcelain cups and frilly flower dresses - bare feet walking over the darkened oak parquet. It still hurts somewhere deep in his chest and he knows that this pain will never completely vanish. It has faded and it will fade even more. But it will never be not _pain_. 

“I sold most of the records to a second hand store in New York and the piano to the couple who bought the house. From Milah’s stuff I only kept two things… the chain she used to wear and the wooden box where she saved some of my notes. Everything else I gave back to her family. My photo album I took with me, of course.” 

With a short, grateful nod, he accepts the mug of steaming coffee and watches Peter rounding the couch. The minuscule frown as he spots the dog before taking seat in the small space between him and the armrest, pushing Salt aside to make room for his legs on Killian’s lap. 

“How?”

“You mean how I could do that without you noticing? I don’t know,” his hands continue the same stroking movement, ruffling over the fluffy cotton of Peter’s sweatpants. “However, I never really planned or plotted so you wouldn’t find out. It just happened…” 

It’s the truth. He doesn’t know. In those months afterwards he always wondered how he managed that. Wondered and shoved it away again. 

“How long?” 

Killian shakes his head; the foolish cowardly part inside him wishes he could stay silent. Forever. But the realistic and reasonable one guesses that Peter would never let him get away with this - not that he would deserve it. 

They opened a door today and Peter will not allow him to close it again. The weird thing is that he doesn’t even want to. 

Ever since they got back into the car, pleasantly warmer than the midday arctic cold and he turned up the heating while Peter covered himself with his flimsy jacket, something has changed. Until then there still had been a sick tension, something very wrong and ill-shifted between them; the graveness of unspoken truths and lies. The fear of the unsaid, the fear of mistakenly saying too much and too little. No matter how often Peter’s presence cut through his consciousness it hadn’t been enough to release this suspension. It had felt ~~too~~ familiar and ~~too~~ good, yet those were feelings from two years ago when everything between them was nothing but a breakable fragile tower of glass and spiderwebs: beautiful and shimmering from afar, eerie and dangerous from within. 

They bought groceries in Stanton’s supermarket, the exotic and fancy stuff they couldn’t find in Pine Creek, books and warmer clothes. (Peter posing for him in a navy parka, complaining about the stiff leather of various pairs of boots and kissing him in front of the shocked cashier after he had paid.) On the way back they listened to Elliot Smith again while Peter read to him from the book he had just bought, feet propped up onto the dashboard, sock-clad toes bouncing along the beat whenever he stopped reading. 

It was dark when they returned to the cabin. A clear night, colder than those before with countless stars visible and the milky way a sea of magnificent white stretched from the far east to the west. It left Peter speechless, face turned to heaven, bags and groceries forgotten, so fascinated and entranced - mouth open and eyes wide. The wonder in his features reflecting the boy he still was that everybody ~~including himself~~ always forgot about. 

~~Something~~ everything has changed. And Killian can no longer deny him anything. 

“I don’t know… Or rather I think I never wanted to stay after Milah’s death. Like you said. I didn’t belong there. In that cosy little house with its clean and perfect neighbourhood. I tried to all the time… I told myself over and over that I was fine and everything was good in that slow, peaceful life we had. Although deep within I felt that it was wrong for me. It was only after she was gone that I realized it because she was no longer around to keep those feelings at bay. Suddenly everything turned to ashes and I couldn’t breathe anymore whenever I stepped over the threshold of our bedroom.”

The coffee is still scalding hot when he takes the first sip; Peter has wriggled even closer, settled comfortably in the nook, not allowing him rest from his disturbing stare. His warmth is everywhere: thighs draped over his, the fingers of his right hand stroking self-forgetful over the short hairs behind his ears, the mug in his hands. 

“Grieving takes time. It takes time until your home is your home again after losing the person you shared it with. But if this home never was _home_? If you lost the only reason that made it your home at all?” 

Peter meets his eyes; calmly provoking - an equally taunting and knowing smirk in the corner of his mouth. 

“I wanted to leave. Yet the first weeks I was too shocked, too devastated, I couldn’t do anything but maintain the most basic needs. That was how you found me. That was before you rushed into my life and no matter how far and fast I wanted to decline you… I couldn’t.” Killian’s fingers that have automatically brushed over Peter’s shins at first trip now over the wide hem of grey cotton to settle on the naked skin. (The reaction is priceless: the furrowed brows relax, the mockery disappears from the smirk and turns it into a smile, stops the attentions on his neck.) 

“At first I thought you were trying to trick me, play one of those cruel games with me you high school kids are up to nowadays. I couldn’t believe that I was anything but an amusing dissipation during your boring summer holidays.” 

(For a split second Peter looks furious, angry like a lightning strike illuminating the nightly sky.)

“Although I couldn’t get rid of you, you just kept coming back until I stopped caring; it didn’t matter anymore if you had tried to fuck me over, it didn’t matter anymore if you had wanted to discredit me. You were so different from all those others and the way they tiptoed around me, surrounded by an air of fake compassion, that overcautious tactfulness… I hated that. You were nothing like that: so young - so carefree and recklessly demanding… but even more than that, you were alive and real. It was so easy to give up, to give in.”

“When did you believe me?” 

“The night I realized I had to leave; not to protect you, but to protect myself. My memories of Milah. Your presence had already begun to overwrite them and diminish them and I couldn’t bear it. It was too soon, too sudden and I loved her too much.” 

He must have hurt Peter ~~but~~ because he doesn’t say anything. He just watches him - with the same fathomless green stare as always, hand no longer curled in his hair: it has slid down from his shoulder, stiff and chill. 

“You said you love me.” 

“And I swear it wasn’t a lie.” 

Killian encompasses the bare ankle more tightly, an intuitive reaction to the visible hesitation and fragility in the boy’s face. There is so much he could say, so much he actually wants to say… Yet he can’t open his mouth, his lips are sewn together, his jawbone fails to obey him. He just stares at Peter; not breathless but barely able to get oxygen into his lungs - waiting and feeling. 

(He loves him.) 

“Do you still love her?” 

He wishes Peter would look away ~~and at the same time he wishes he never would~~. But he still watches him - waiting and feeling. So Killian starts with his easy stroking movements again, thumb circling the small dent of Peter’s ankle until he can no longer postpone the answer, wishing it wasn’t so easy ~~wishing he could just lie~~. 

“One part of me.” 

“And Emma?” (The fast, hard and biting remark is expected because this is Peter he’s talking to.)

“No,” The answer doesn’t feel right, but then he realizes that only thing that makes it so strange is the actual truth; so many years he has held onto those feelings, admired them like a beautiful wooden casket. But he has never noticed that all the precious contents are gone, dried out, vaporized. 

“No,” he repeats. “Only the feelings she gave me. The devastation and the despair; the awareness that my freedom was worth nothing.”

Peter doesn’t resume his touches. His hand lies still between them, seemingly motionless and feeble. No salvation. 

“Tell me how much you loved Milah.” A whisper. 

“I loved her with the sincerity and complexity of someone who had known the emotion of heartbreak. It was more gentle and slow, more like learning than doing - not like I had loved Emma; fast and sweet and totally, the way only an eighteen-year old boy could. With every fiber of my being, with every drop of my blood. Milah was different and my love for her was different. She was the spring for my winter: amicable and patient, persistent in her own quiet way, warm but not the burning and sickening heat of summer. There was not one thing about her I didn’t love. She was beautiful, of course, but it was not the outstanding, blinding kind of beauty. It was more than that. It was the way she loved - so utterly and tenderly and yet so distant and demure. She could be iron and ice and also warm and gentle. I had never been a good person - but she believed I could be. Sometimes I still dream of the sound of her laughter, of her fingers around her favorite cup, of the weight of her thighs over mine.” 

It hurts; his head throbs with every sentence of awoken memory. Then he shakes his head, clears his thoughts. 

“I loved her very much, and for a long time. You grow used to pain: numb, you even forget about it, but the pain doesn’t vanish.” Finally letting go of Peter’s leg, he shifts in his seat, turns slightly sideways to have a full view of the boy. 

“Then what remains for me?” 

"Everything else. A part in the life I live now. The person they made of me. The puzzle of secrets and mysteries you have solved." 

He can’t offer anything else - it would be a lie and they are both aware of it. Peter studies him as if he has never looked away. Hands around his mug of coffee, grey overlong sleeves worn out at the seams, face half covered in warm flickering shadows from the oven and the lamp on the table… his gaze is still hard to bear. 

There is no answer and they both don’t need one. Or perhaps the answer is Peter setting down their cups - first his own, then Killian’s - before before pulling him down and kissing the side of his throat while his hands sneak along his sides to grab the back of his knitted jersey. 

It’s not comfortable, lying like this. 

But it’s not uncomfortable. 

So they stay. Like this. With his body half draped over Peter’s, covering him, soaking up his warmth. Feet and legs tangled in the other’s. Noses buried in hair and nape, inhaling freely and deeply (scents of autumn and winter), hands fisted in fabric or sliding underneath to reach for bare skin. Hot and tingling with the touch of fingertips. Listening to their lips fumbling over cheeks and throats, searching for mouths and tongues. Tasting the rhythm of heartbeats, the newness of this normality, the possibility of something.

___

**End**

Thanks for reading! ♥


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